Stay By My Side
by Sparks
Summary: "It's not your face that scared me, Angel."
1. Chapter 1

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Word count: ~73.8K

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Carlotta, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

Notes: This is the longest fic I've ever written :o and I've absolutely loved writing it. As with most other fans, I wanted a happy ending, but I wanted it to start a little earlier. What if Christine's horror was based more on his anger than his face? What if she realised a little sooner that she didn't want to be without him?

Notes 2: Although this is based on ALW's stage production, there are hints and influences from the source text, namely Erik's time in Persia and the existence of the Rue Scribe door. Also, there is an attempt to correct some of the faulty time in the show (a new production of _Hannibal_ and then immediately a new production of _Il Muto_? I don't think so…)

Final note: As ever, in my head these characters are played by Ramin Karimloo and Sierra Boggess, and I have absolutely not been watching the 25th anniversary production multiple times.

Summary: "It's not your face that scared me, Angel."

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><p>He led her up through the darkness to the light, up through the opera cellars and basements, up little-used staircases and back corridors, and along hidden passageways that she was sure only he knew about.<p>

"You can find your way from here," he said at last, and Christine looked up, glanced around, nodded. But he didn't see her, turned and held the lantern high, looked at her keenly. She almost flinched away from his gaze. "Christine?"

"Yes," she whispered, and realised she hadn't spoken since before she had…since before. He hadn't given her a chance to speak, first raging and then pleading, and then at last, when he had his mask on again, calm and resolute, bringing her back across the lake and away from his home.

"You're sure?" he pressed her, frowning now, the expression half-disguised by the mask. "You're shivering." He stepped closer, she flinched again and he stopped, lowered the lantern. She thought he was hurt by it, wondered for a moment why she should care when he had – when he –

"I'll take you the rest of the way," he decided, and his hand reached for her again, fingers clasped about her wrist before she could shrink away.

He pulled her along another corridor, through a door hidden in panelling and into another secret passageway, and she thought she recognised it from the night before – how long ago had it been, she wondered, since her Angel had revealed himself, since he had whisked her away from her dressing room? The opera house, from what she could see, was dark and empty. It was still night, not yet dawn, but the opening night celebrations must be long past.

The back of the mirror loomed, the glass shining in the lamplight. She could see through to the little dressing room that had been assigned to her, the hastily-discarded costumes, the dressing table with the costume jewellery still strewn across it.

And Madame Giry sitting at the table, waiting for them. Christine gasped, bit her lip, and he – the Phantom – muttered a curse, pressed something at the side of the mirror and let it swing aside.

"Here she is," he said, and there was a sour note in his voice. "Safe and unharmed." He tugged at her wrist, brought her into the dressing room, and Christine stood silently, eyes downcast, aware that he and Madame Giry were glaring at each other. "Take her home," he said at last, an order. "She's overwrought."

Then the mirror swung closed; the lamplight vanished. Christine glanced over her shoulder at the mirror, wondered if he was still there, if he were watching them, waiting to see what she would say.

"You must be freezing," said Madame Giry, and Christine jumped a little, turned back to her guardian and felt her cheeks warm as she remembered how she was dressed. "Get changed, and then I'll take you back to my room for tonight."

Christine knew better than to protest, to suggest that she could go back to the small dormitory she shared with a handful of the other girls in the corps de ballet. Even if she dared to do anything but accept Madame Giry's order, she wasn't sure she _wanted_ to go back to the dormitory, wasn't sure she wanted to face the questions, the talking, the gossiping of the dancers.

Not tonight. Tonight she was cold, and shaken, and she would not object to sleeping on the couch in Madame Giry's small apartment. Would not object to the meagre comfort offered by it.

She went to the corner of the room, to the small wardrobe where her day dress was hung up, and she changed quickly, stripped off the remains of her costume and the dressing gown, donned the warmer dress. She looked at the white dressing gown for a moment; the hem was damp, a little dirty, and she wondered if she would need to look at it tomorrow, to see proof of what had happened. Wondered if after she slept it might all seem to be a dream.

"Don't dawdle, Christine," said Madame Giry sharply, and Christine shoved the dressing gown to the back of the wardrobe, closed the door, clasped her hands together.

"I'm ready, Madame," she murmured, and Madame Giry nodded once, gestured with a hand for Christine to go before her from the room.

They walked the familiar route to Madame Giry's rooms in silence. The opera house was dark and quiet, everyone gone home or to their beds, the lights turned out. Christine thought it was almost as eerie as the walk up from the Phantom's home, was glad of Madame Giry's prosaic presence, following barely a step behind her.

Madame Giry unlocked her door, held it open for Christine, and then closed it firmly, went to light the candles.

"Are you alright?" she asked, abrupt, as she turned to look at Christine – almost inspecting her, Christine felt, and she was very aware of the remains of stage make-up on her face, of the state of her hair, of the way she was still trembling.

"No," she whispered, and she couldn't help crying, great sobs that wracked her body, and Madame Giry had to physically move her to a chair, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, held her and did not, as Christine feared she might, say that she was too old for such scenes.

At last the tears ceased, and Christine leaned wearily against her guardian, exhausted beyond anything she had felt before.

"There, now," said Madame Giry, and her voice was unusually gentle. "Go and wash your face, Christine, and you may use my hairbrush tonight." Christine nodded, stood up, but Madame Giry halted her, touched her wrist and Christine shuddered, remembered how _he_ had clasped her wrist, had almost dragged her from his home after she had –

"Christine," Madame Giry said, "did he harm you?"

Christine shook her head at once. No, he hadn't harmed her, not physically, at least. She'd thought he was going to, thought he would strike her in his anger, had cowered away from him in terror. But although he'd touched her before then – oh _god_, he'd touched her, and her cheeks flushed as she remembered it, remembered how it had felt – he hadn't harmed her.

Not physically.

"But he scared you," said Madame Giry, and she sighed, stood up. "Wash your face," she instructed. "I'll find you something to wear to bed."

Christine went to the basin, cupped water in her hands and brought it to her face, used a flannel to scrub the makeup off, remove the evidence of her tears. She thought of the Opera Ghost, thought of all the stories, wondered if he was watching even now.

She couldn't think about that.

Madame Giry brought her a nightgown, clearly one of her own, and a glass of something – brandy, Christine realised, when Madame Giry indicated for her to drink. It burned in her mouth and throat, warmed her from inside, and she went to the couch, helped Madame Giry arrange blankets for her bed.

"Now sit down, and tell me," said Madame Giry when at last the bed was ready and Christine was changed. "You're sure he didn't hurt you?"

"I'm sure," Christine murmured. "At least – oh, Madame." She looked up, felt miserable and wretched, felt as though her life had become a lie. "You knew, didn't you?" she asked, agonised. "Why did you never tell me?"

"That your Angel and the Phantom are one and the same?" Madame Giry offered a helpless shrug. "Oh Christine, what could I have said? You would never have believed me."

Christine looked down, sipped the brandy again, thought of her Angel, thought of the voice that had taught her for nearly five years now. More than a teacher, though – he had been her friend. She had gone to him with her problems, spoken of her hopes and dreams.

Foolish, foolish idiot, she thought to herself. She should have realised, should have asked, should have done anything other than what she had done. She had pushed away all questions, had believed that even if the voice were not an angel, he was at least good and kind and –

"Perhaps I should have tried," said Madame Giry then, "but you are not the only one he has scared, Christine. To tell you against his wishes would have been foolhardy." She reached out, took Christine's hand. "But I do believe he means you no harm," she said firmly.

"Yes," said Christine, nodding slightly. "Yes, I know that. He – I cannot believe he would hurt me." She looked at Madame Giry again, moistened her lip, wondered once more if he were listening, if he had tunnels behind these walls, if he could hear her even now. She wanted to speak of her actions to Madame Giry, to tell her that she had taken his mask, to explain how he had scared her so.

She shuddered again; he had been so very angry, so very _betrayed_. They had betrayed each other so much in just the space of a few hours, and she didn't know how to make any of it right.

His face had shocked her, yes – had horrified her, that anyone could have such a face, that it could be real – but that shock had faded so quickly into fear, not of the man's face but of his temper.

And she was so scared still.

"Oh Christine," sighed Madame Giry, shaking her head. "You need to sleep. Don't bother waking up in the morning. Monsieur Reyer will want you for rehearsals, no doubt, but I'll put him off."

Christine hadn't even thought of tomorrow, of what her days would be like while _Hannibal_ was showing. She'd had only a few short hours of rehearsal that afternoon, Monsieur Reyer rushing through all the scenes – she'd known the music, of course, known all Elissa's cues, but he'd had to rehearse the blocking with her, and he would of course want to rehearse further, to make sure the opening night's success was continued.

But _Hannibal_ was only due to run for four weeks – after that they were to present _Il Muto_ once again, and she wondered, briefly, whether she would be able to audition for a part, whether she would even be continuing as Elissa or whether Carlotta would return.

She thought of the accident, of the backdrop that had fallen on Carlotta, and she caught her breath as she realised it had been the Phantom, her Angel, who had done it, and she knew why, she _knew_ he had done it for her.

Christine looked at Madame Giry, finished the brandy and saw fear in her guardian's face.

"Thank you," she said softly. "I'm feeling much better now. I – I'd like to sleep."

Madame Giry looked as though she might protest, as though she might ask more questions, but then she nodded, sighed, took the glass and rose.

"Well," she said. "Sleep well. I'll find someone to bring you a tray in the morning so you can eat when you wake." And she left, went through to the other room, shut the door and for a few minutes Christine could hear her moving around, preparing for bed.

Then all was silence. Christine blew out the candles, lay down on the couch and stared into the darkness until at last fatigue pulled her into sleep.

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><p>36 chapters + epilogue, all completed and beta-read, and I'll post a new chapter every day :)<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

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><p>"Mademoiselle! At last." Monsieur Reyer hurried across the stage to Christine, took her hand and almost dragged her into the centre. "I meant to find you last night," he said, "to tell you how well you did."<p>

"Thank you, Monsieur," she said, and felt herself blush yet again. Since she'd left Madame Giry's room, barely an hour before, she felt as though she'd been surrounded by people congratulating her – and by people staring, whispering, gossiping. She was sure her disappearance after the performance had been noted.

"Yes, very well," he said, with a decisive nod. "And you remembered the blocking well. Nevertheless I should like to go through it with you again today."

Christine nodded. "Yes, Monsieur, of course." She hesitated, a little nervous. She didn't know Monsieur Reyer well; he usually left the instruction and choreography of the ballet to Madame Giry, or at least conferred with her when the dancers were not present. She knew him to be kind enough, devoted to his music, to his art, but she had never exchanged more than a few words with him before yesterday.

Her Angel – the Phantom – had always spoken of him with respect, and so Christine had always respected him. But still, she was nervous.

"What is it, Mademoiselle?" he asked her patiently.

"I think I know most of it," Christine said, and hoped he wouldn't think she was arrogant, hope he'd see that it wasn't over-confidence. Her Angel – the Phantom – had made sure she'd learnt the blocking, where to step, how to move, all her cues. It had been hard work, harder still because she'd had to learn the ballet choreography as well, had in effect been learning two different parts for the same opera. "But there are a few places I think I need work," she went on, "particularly towards the end of act one, and then the beginning of act four?"

He looked at her, eyes narrowed a little, and Christine bit her lip, glanced away, waited for his judgement.

"Very good, then," he said at last. "I don't want to tire you by running through the entire opera, and if I'm honest you were almost perfect last night. And anyway, I want to discuss _Il Muto_ with you afterwards." He opened his copy of the score, flipped through the pages. "From Elissa's entrance in act four, then, Mademoiselle."

They rehearsed for an hour; Monsieur Reyer was almost as strict as her Angel – the Phantom – but he seemed pleased with her, commented on how quickly she learned and how well she responded to direction.

"And now," he said, closing his book, "we must discuss _Il Muto_." He looked grave now, glanced around as if to see who was there, gestured for her to join him by the footlights. "For the rest of this run, you will remain in the role of Elissa," he told her. "Carlotta refuses to return." He almost smiled then, and Christine bit her lip to keep from doing the same. "But then _Il Muto_ – you – well…" Reyer sighed. "They go against his instruction," he muttered then. "It is not wise, not wise at all."

Christine shivered, cold suddenly despite the warmth of the stage, despite her dress and the scarf she wore to protect her voice from drafts. He. There could only be one _he_, and yet she had to ask, had to be sure.

"His instruction?" she murmured, and Reyer looked straight at her, raised one eyebrow as if to suggest that he knew she had understood. Christine thought of the events of last night, thought of the man in the mask, thought of all he had said over the past few months about her readiness to take leading roles.

People had been hurt by the Opera Ghost, she remembered. Never badly, never – God forbid! – enough to do more than scare, but they had been hurt nonetheless. Would he hurt people to make her a star? But she could answer her own question; Carlotta had almost been hit by falling scenery, after all. There was a reason her Angel had made sure she knew the blocking as well as the music for Elissa.

"He wanted you for the countess," said Reyer plainly. "And Carlotta for Serafimo." He sniffed, glanced away from her, looked out at the empty seats of the auditorium. "I wouldn't have objected," he said, and Christine laughed, lifted a hand to cover her mouth, looked around again to see if anyone had heard. "But," he continued, ignoring her mirth, "the new managers saw fit to ignore his casting. You are to play Serafimo."

"But – but Monsieur, that's still a good part for me," said Christine, speaking slowly as she turned the thought over in her mind. There was no singing, of course, but it was still more than she'd ever had before.

"Hmph," was his response. "I think not, Mademoiselle. You should have a singing part even if it is not the lead. I can't think how I never knew of your voice before." Christine shrugged a little, and something made her glance up at box five. He followed her gaze, and then looked at her again with that penetrating stare, as if he knew – as if he _knew_.

She dropped her gaze, hoped she was misreading him, hoped her experiences of last night were colouring her interactions now. It would be better if that were true, she knew, better than for Monsieur Reyer to know who her teacher was.

"You'll learn the part anyway," said Reyer, and Christine looked at him again, surprised.

"But if Carlotta is coming back," she said, hesitant again, "surely…surely she won't accept me as understudy." He smiled suddenly, a mischievous expression that made him look fully ten years younger, and Christine stifled another laugh. "I see," she said. She would learn the part, he would rehearse her – and La Carlotta would not know about it.

"Will your teacher help you?" he asked then, and Christine's smile faded. She glanced up at the box again and then turned away, put her back to the auditorium.

In her memory he raged, called her names, his fury so endless that she could not escape from it.

In her memory he sang to her, called to her, loved her.

"I do not know," she said at last. "I…I hope so."

"Ask him," Monsieur Reyer instructed. "I shall help you as much as I can, but I can only devote so much time, you understand. It's an old favourite, of course, but there are always cast changes." He glanced across the stage, nodded his head as if hearing the beat of the music. "And besides," he murmured, "Carlotta has scarcely avoided accidents so far."

Christine clenched her hands together, turned once again to glance up at box five. Her mouth was dry; she wondered if he would stop, if she asked him. If she asked him to leave Carlotta alone, would he do it – for her?

She wasn't sure, didn't think she could test it even if she could find some way to make right the wrong she had committed upon him last night in removing his mask, invading his privacy so grossly.

"Christine!"

Christine turned, startled to hear her name called so familiarly; but Raoul was crossing the stage, hat in his hand, and she couldn't help smiling. He had been a good friend to her, years ago before her father had died, when they had lived in the house by the sea.

"Raoul," she greeted. "Good afternoon."

"After – Christine, where have you been?" Raoul demanded, and Christine almost took a step back, a little overwhelmed by his intensity. "You disappeared last night, and nobody's seen you all morning! The managers couldn't seem to tell me where you live!"

"Well, they are new here," Christine said. "They can't be expected to know the living arrangements of every member of the cast, after all." Raoul frowned, looked as though he would object, but Christine forestalled him with a smile. "I was very tired," she said. "I did try to tell you." She turned to Monsieur Reyer, acutely aware that Raoul hadn't introduced himself or even bothered to acknowledge the older man. "Monsieur, may I introduce the Vicomte de Chagny? Raoul, this is Monsieur Reyer, our musical director."

To his credit, Raoul at once bowed his head, offered his hand. "A pleasure, Monsieur," he said. "Forgive me, I was rude. But you see I haven't seen Christine in many years."

"Of course," said Reyer, but Christine thought there was a little distance to his voice, a little coolness. "A pleasure to meet our new patron, of course. But you will excuse me, I have a great deal to do." He looked at Christine, raised one eyebrow. "You will ask your teacher, yes? I will have a copy of the score ready for you tomorrow morning."

"Thank you, Monsieur," she said, dipping a curtsey. "And – and I will ask him."

"Make sure you rest this afternoon," was his parting advice, said with a sidelong glance at Raoul. "You're not used to being a lead, you will find it more tiring than you think."

"That," observed Raoul, watching Monsieur Reyer head across the stage to the wings, "was aimed at me, yes? I'm sorry, Christine – of course you're tired. You were such a success last night."

"Thank you, Raoul," she said, looking up at him, observing the changes that she'd not had time to see last night at their brief reunion. "I _am_ sorry about last night," she added, and she meant it, would like to spend some time with him again.

"Quite alright," he said, but she thought he wasn't being honest, thought he was holding something back. "Perhaps we could try again tonight?" he asked, and Christine hesitated. She couldn't help but think that Monsieur Reyer was right, that she should focus on her performance and not be distracted by social engagements until she was more used to the demands of the role, of being in almost every scene. Dancing was tiring, but she was off the stage more than she was on it as a member of the corps de ballet, at least in _Hannibal_.

And besides that, there was her angel's instruction – the _Phantom_'s instruction that she spend her energy solely on music. She knew he did not approve of going out in the evening after a performance, knew too that he had been angry last night with the way Raoul had been so presumptuous, the way he had assumed she had no real objection to going with him for supper.

Jealous, perhaps, and the thought made something in her stomach flutter.

"Christine?" said Raoul expectantly, reached out as if to touch her arm, and Christine shrank away, shook her head.

"No, not tonight," she said. "I'm sorry, Raoul, but Monsieur Reyer is right. I'm not used to the demands of the role and I must do my best." She offered him a smile as consolation, saw him frown and spread her hands out, indicated the empty theatre. "I've finally achieved my dream, Raoul, you wouldn't have me spoil it for the sake of a supper date?"

But his mouth had fixed in a mulish way that she recognised from when they had been young together. "I hardly think one supper date would cause you to be anything other than perfection," he argued, but Christine shook her head again. He didn't understand – how could he? – what this meant to her and how unwilling she was to jeopardise it.

"Perhaps we could have lunch on Sunday, though?" she suggested, in part as an appeasement. But there was no performance on Sunday, and she would be at church in the morning, could easily meet Raoul somewhere afterwards. "I _do_ wish to see you, Raoul," she went on. "I have missed you."

"I – alright, then," he agreed. "Shall I meet you here?"

"Yes," said Christine, thinking quickly. "Yes, outside the front entrance at half past twelve." She was startled when he took her hand, raised it to press a kiss to her knuckles, but she didn't pull away.

"Until Sunday then, Lotte," he said. "I'll look forward to it."


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

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><p>Christine sat in her dressing room, back to the mirror, and bent her head over clasped hands. She wasn't praying, not exactly – she rather thought she was hoping and wishing, but in the silence of the dressing room her hope and wish almost seemed to develop into a prayer.<p>

It had been three days since she had heard from her angel – from the Phantom. Three long, hard days, during which she had realised how important he was to her, how lonely her days were without his voice.

Three days, and she had performed on stage three times, had heard the applause, received flowers and compliments, had been asked to suppers, invited for walks, and all she could think about was her angel. Others spoke to her, but she barely heard them, straining for even a whisper of his familiar voice. Others complimented her, but it meant nothing compared to the slight praise he sometimes gave her when she had performed particularly well in a lesson.

Christine missed him, and she knew his absence was her fault, was because of _her_ actions. For three days she had lived with that knowledge, and it only hurt more as each hour passed with no word from him.

There were things she should be doing now; the evening's performance would start in two hours, and she needed to eat something before then, before her dresser arrived to help her into the first costume. And she should be studying the part for _Il Muto_, Monsieur Reyer had told her to be ready to rehearse act one with him in one of the smaller practice rooms tomorrow.

But she sat, hands together, looked at herself in the small mirror of the dressing table, felt the full-length mirror behind her, wondered if he was watching. Wondered whether she was imagining the slight shiver down her spine, the barest awareness of him.

Whether he was there, separated from her only by the glass of the mirror, watching her even now, as she felt tears form in her eyes.

She rose suddenly, turned and faced the mirror – saw only her reflection, small and pale, but she stepped closer, raised a hand to touch the glass.

"I wish you'd talk to me," she whispered, her voice sounding forlorn even to her own ears. "I'm – I'm so sorry." She was crying properly now, tears running in hot streaks down her face, and she was almost ashamed of it, wanted to stop but the ache in her heart wouldn't let her. "I want to make it right," she went on, and she looked at the glass, tried to see beyond it even as she knew it was futile. "Please give me a chance to make it right," she begged.

She thought she heard something – an inhalation, some movement behind the mirror – and she pressed closer, lifted her other hand and spread her fingers against the glass.

"Please," she said again. "Please don't leave me. I couldn't bear it."

And she knew she couldn't – he was her best friend as well as her teacher, the one person she had always been able to trust. She'd trusted foolishly, perhaps, and hindsight made her feel naïve and childish, but she had trusted him nonetheless. Trusted him still, with her voice, with her career – with more than that, she trusted him with her happiness.

She'd spoken the truth when she'd said to Madame Giry that she knew he would never hurt her, not deliberately. And yet he was hurting her now, by this absence, an absence she could only think was being inflicted as a punishment for her stupid, thoughtless action that night.

But nothing happened, no further noise came from the passage behind the mirror, and Christine bowed her head, tried to calm her breathing, forced away the tears. He was not there – or worse, she thought, he _was_ there, and simply would not answer her.

A knock at the dressing room door made her turn, fumbling in her pocket for a handkerchief, and she glanced at the clock, was reassured that she still had plenty of time before she needed to prepare for the night's performance.

"Come in," she called, and the door opened to admit Meg, dressed in her white practice clothes, her pointe shoes dangling over her shoulder.

"Christine," she said, smiling. "Maman sent me for you, she wants you to come and eat with us before the show." Her smile faded; she stepped closer, lifted a hand to touch Christine's cheek. "You've been crying," she murmured. "Oh, Christine, what is it?"

For a moment Christine thought of telling her, but only a moment. She'd spoken of her angel to Meg three nights ago, flushed with the pleasure of her first leading role and the praise that had echoed through the corridor as she returned to her dressing room. Spoken foolishly, and Meg hadn't understood, had been concerned for her.

"I'm alright," she said, just before the silence became too long. "Just – just a little overwhelmed, I think."

Meg smiled again, bright and cheerful, and she took Christine's handkerchief, dried her cheeks. "You're doing splendidly," she said, coaxing Christine back to equilibrium. "You know Maman never likes us to read reviews, but Sorelli had the papers, of course, and they all agree you're simply wonderful."

"Oh, Meg," sighed Christine. Her friend was trying to help, but news of good reviews only made her think of the review she hadn't had – the critical, mentoring review from her teacher. But she tried to seem happier, tried to smile even though she knew Meg would see through it. "Thank you, Meg," she said. "I'm sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me."

"It's alright," said Meg, and she handed back the handkerchief, glanced around the dressing room. "Whatever are you doing up here by yourself? I feel like I've hardly seen you since the other night."

"I know," lamented Christine, letting Meg pull her away from the mirror and back to the dressing table. They still shared a room, of course, with Giselle and Jammes, but they no longer shared the same practice sessions, no longer ran on the same timetable. They came together for meals, in the large canteen that fed the workers of the opera house, but during the day Meg was with the dancers, practicing and taking instruction from Madame Giry, while Christine spent most of her time now with Monsieur Reyer and the cast, going over _Hannibal_ and beginning preparations for _Il Muto_.

It was adding to her loneliness, she realised – this odd separation from her friends, and from Meg in particular. She was getting to know people she'd only known in passing before, the principals of the cast who had never done more than nod at her before her debut, but they were not her friends.

Her smile widened, became real. "Meg, let's do something together," she said. "There aren't any rehearsals tomorrow, let's go out."

Meg squealed, bounced on her toes. "Oh, yes," she agreed. "We should go shopping, to celebrate your success!" Her enthusiasm was catching, and Christine laughed, let Meg spin her around, let herself forget, for a few moments, anything but the delight of being with her friend.

"And to tea," she said. "As many cakes as we want!" She hugged Meg suddenly, held her close. "Thank you," she said, whispered into her friend's ear. "You always cheer me up."

"You're too melancholy," Meg told her gaily. "Now come on, Maman will be waiting, and this afternoon's lesson was _awful_, Giselle couldn't do anything right and she made me do an extra half an hour because she caught me pulling faces."

Christine laughed again, shook her head. "I almost envy you," she said. "Carlotta will be back on Monday for rehearsals and I'm dreading it."

Meg made a comical expression, stuck her nose in the air and imitated Carlotta's walk. "Oh, la di da," she said. "You're miles better than she ever was, Christine. And anyway, I know Maman thinks the new managers are stupid not to cast you as the countess." She glanced around theatrically, as if somebody might have entered the dressing room without them seeing. "You know the Opera Ghost wants you as the lead," Meg confided then, and Christine glanced at the mirror, nodded just once.

"I know," she murmured. "But…oh Meg, let's not talk about that now." She didn't want to think about the Opera Ghost, about her angel, about the threats she was _sure_ he'd made about the casting, given the looks and whispers that had followed her about for the past few days.

Meg looked at her keenly, searchingly, and Christine dropped her gaze, couldn't explain why she didn't want to talk about it. She wondered what Meg knew of the Phantom – if Meg, like her mother, knew more about him than most in the opera house. Knew him to be no ghost but a man of flesh and blood.

"We must go," she said, when the silence was becoming unbearable, when Meg spoke no more. "You said Madame is waiting."

"Yes," said Meg, nodding. "Are you ready?"

"I'll just wash my face," said Christine, aware she must look a sight from her earlier tears. "I'll follow you in a minute." Meg nodded again, gave her one last curious look before leaving the dressing room, shutting the door behind her.

Christine stood still for a moment, let the silence settle again. She went slowly to the washstand in the corner, poured water into the basin and cupped it in her hands, brought it to her face. The water was cool, felt pleasant on her face, and she washed away all traces of her distress.

An afternoon out with Meg would do her good, she knew, and Madame Giry had taken her aside yesterday, informed her that her wage had significantly increased for the duration of _Hannibal_, and even afterwards she would be earning more than she had as a ballet dancer, earning the same as other principal members of the company. And although Christine wasn't stupid, knew she ought to save what she did not need to live on, she didn't feel that one shopping trip would be so very wasteful.

She dried her face, felt that prickle down the back of her neck again. Was it real, she wondered, was he really there? Was he watching her now, would he hear if she spoke?

"I meant it," she whispered. "I am so sorry. I was…I was curious, but…I'm not a child. I should have respected your privacy. And…and I know I deserve this." She had to stop, swallowed hard, refused to cry again. "I deserve it," she repeated at last. "But please. Please don't leave me forever."

There was no answer, but she didn't really expect one. If he chose to speak to her, she knew it would be on his terms, when _he_ decided to reveal himself again, not because she begged him not to leave her.

She put the towel down, glanced around to make sure the dressing room was tidy, and then hurried to catch up with Meg.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"That's pretty," said Meg, peering over Christine's shoulder at the music box Christine had found, tucked away at the back of a display of many a music shop. They'd come in to look for a book of folk songs that had recently been published – not Christine's usual fare, but she knew it included songs she'd sang as a child with her father. The book was in stock, but she'd been distracted by the display, had drifted over to look at the boxes.<p>

"Yes, it is," Christine said, holding up the small wooden box. It was carved into a sort of maze, polished to a shine, and it played a lullaby when she opened it, an old refrain that she half-remembered from childhood.

"Are you going to buy it?" Meg asked then, leaning against Christine's shoulder. "Ooh, I'd buy this one, if I could." She picked up an oval-shaped box, metal and enamel with a tiny picture of a dancer on the top. "But Maman would scold so," she went on. "If you listen to her, we should save all our money, mend all our clothes until they're in pieces, and only buy things when they're absolutely necessary." She put the box down again, huffed a sigh. "Well, are you?" she asked again.

"I'm not sure," Christine said slowly. She'd come on this trip with some idea of finding a present for her angel, something to show she truly was sorry about her actions, and after nearly two hours of browsing had almost given up hope of finding something suitable. What, after all, did one get for the Opera Ghost?

But this might do, she thought, and she checked the price, winced slightly. More than she should spend, she knew, but then…if it showed him she was sincere…

"I will," she decided, took the box with her to the counter. Meg followed, brought the book of folk songs for her to purchase and waited while Christine counted out coins from her purse.

"But it's not for you, is it?" she said, and Christine shrugged a little, shook her head. "Who, then?" Meg pressed. "Your teacher?" Christine sighed, took the package from the cashier and turned to leave the shop.

"Yes," she said, but she knew Meg wouldn't be satisfied, would want to know more. "We…had a disagreement," she said, "and he's done so much for me, I…I need to make it up to him."

Meg didn't say anything as they left, the bell jangling as the door swung shut behind them, as they stepped onto the street. It was late in the afternoon, nearly four o'clock, but it was market day and Paris seemed to heave with people. Christine juggled her packages, tucked them under her arm, hoped none of them would fall.

"We should start back," she suggested, and Meg nodded; they both needed to warm up before the evening's performance, and it would take them twenty minutes to reach the opera house.

"But Christine – your teacher," Meg said then, taking one or two of Christine's parcels. "The other night…" She sighed, began to speak very quickly, as if she couldn't hold her words back any longer. "Maman says I shouldn't talk to you about it, but you said he was an angel, Christine. But a voice in the walls – it sounds like – well, it sounds like the Opera Ghost."

Christine's reply was delayed as they dodged around a strolling couple, and she was grateful for the reprieve, grateful for the chance to think, to try to decide what to say to Meg.

She wished she'd spoken to Madame Giry more about the whole affair, but Madame Giry had almost been avoiding her for several days, and anyway Christine wasn't sure she wanted to ask questions, wasn't sure she wanted to know unless _he_ were the one to answer them.

"Christine," said Meg insistently then. "Please, I _know_ something's going on."

"Oh Meg, even _I_ don't know what's going on," said Christine with a sigh. "He…he is a person, of course he is. But I've done him a terrible wrong, and I haven't heard from him since opening night." She risked a glance at Meg, found her looking oddly pensive.

"I know Maman knows the Opera Ghost," Meg reminded her. "He's dangerous, Christine."

"He would never, ever hurt me," said Christine with certainty. She knew he was dangerous, but he was no danger to her. "Please believe me, Meg. Whatever else he might do, he would never hurt me." Even in his fiercest, terrifying rage, he had kept himself from striking her.

Meg sighed. "I – I'll try, Christine. But you will be careful, won't you?"

Christine nodded at once. "Of course, Meg, I'll be as careful as I can." And Meg would have to accept it, because she could do no more than that – would not promise, as she suspected Meg hoped, to have nothing more to do with him. He was her friend, her teacher, he was such a vital part of her life and if he returned to her, she would do her best to be his friend in return, to make amends for her mistake.

They reached the opera house in good time, hurried up the passages and staircases to their bedroom, and were practically pounced on by their friends as they reached the dormitory corridor.

"Christine, Christine, come and look!" cried Giselle, and she ran up, took Christine's packages; little Jammes took Christine's hand and tugged her towards her bedroom.

"What on earth?" laughed Christine, but she let herself be pulled along the corridor, through the doorway.

"It's a present!" said Jammes, and brought Christine to a stop at the foot of her bed. "Look," Jammes ordered her, and Christine looked, bemused, saw a large cardboard box on her neatly-made bed. Giselle tumbled the packages down by the pillow, turned to Christine and spun around in a circle.

"Who's it from, Christine?" she demanded eagerly. "You don't have a beau you haven't told us about, do you?"

"Christine, with a beau?" laughed Meg, settling down on her own bed. "However did you dream up such nonsense?" But she had gone a little pale, she looked at Christine, and Christine looked back, bit her lip and wondered why her thoughts went so swiftly to her angel.

She remembered the mannequin, the wedding dress, the way he had touched her, the way he had spoken.

"Well, aren't you going to open it?" asked Jammes, jumping onto the bed and making the bedsprings squeak loudly. "It's been here for ever so long, we've been waiting and waiting for you to come back."

"We've only been gone a few hours," said Meg, saving Christine from speaking. "You're so impatient, Jammes." Jammes stuck her tongue out, and Meg responded in kind; Christine smiled as she sat down on her bed, slowly undid the strings holding the box shut, pulled the top half away.

"Oh," she breathed, and lifted from the box a beautiful gown, cornflower blue with flowers picked out in gold thread. A sleeve fell from the folds, elbow-length with a splash of white lace, and there was lace at the neckline as well.

The cloth was finer than anything she owned, and she was sure it would be perfectly tailored to fit her.

"It's beautiful," breathed Jammes, who was always impressed by pretty dresses, and Christine dropped the garment back into the box, looked across the room at Meg, who was watching her once again. "Oh, Christine, it's so beautiful! Who is it from?" Jammes asked then. "Is there a note?"

"I don't think so," said Christine, and she searched in the box, amongst the folds of fabric, scraped her nails against the bottom of the box and shook her head. "No," she said, "no note." She frowned thoughtfully – the existence of the Ghost's notes was well-known, and the way the paper was always bordered in black, but his handwriting would not be known, and he would surely have other paper.

But then, she knew it was from him. She needed no note to tell her.

"I know!" said Giselle, with an air of triumph. "The new patron – the Vicomte! He's been at every performance, Christine, and he's been sending you flowers."

"Has he?" said Christine vaguely. She'd had flowers, certainly, more than one bouquet, but she hadn't been paying attention to who had sent them. She didn't want a suitor, had admired the flowers but hadn't really cared for the sentiments behind them. She had lived in the opera house long enough to know what happened to young girls who became embroiled with the kind of men who sought their attentions.

"Anyway, he would have left a note," she added then.

"A secret admirer," Giselle giggled. "Are you going to try it on, Christine?"

"No, she is not," came a decided voice from the doorway, and all of them rose immediately, conditioned through many years of training, turned to face Madame Giry. The ballet mistress was frowning, and she glanced from Christine to the box, to the dress still spilling over the sides. "Jammes," she said, "you should be at your lessons. Giselle, Meg, why are you not warming up?"

"Yes, Madame," they murmured, and slipped from the room; Meg paused at the door to give Christine one last look of concern, but fled before Madame Giry could chastise her further.

Madame Giry stepped into the room, approached Christine's bed and looked down at the dress in its plain cardboard box. She pursed her lips, turned to Christine.

"Be careful, child," she warned. "If you accept his gifts, you must accept the man himself."

"Yes, Madame," said Christine, but she wasn't sure what Madame Giry was implying – she was trying to accept him, trying to reconcile her angel with the Opera Ghost. She wanted to know him.

But Madame Giry shook her head, sighed. "Well, you'll do as you want," she said, and there was something of regret in her tone now. "You're practically a grown woman, and I can't stand in his way. Now, hurry along," she instructed. "Don't think about it now. You need to warm up as well."

"Yes, Madame," said Christine again, and she picked up the package containing the music box, held it close to her and scurried from the room under Madame Giry's watchful gaze.

She couldn't think what Madame Giry had meant, why she was warning her now when she had been silent for days, silent since their conversation after the events of that night. That she was afraid of the Phantom was clear, but then most people were afraid of him, at least a little.

But there had been something else to it, Christine was sure, something _more_, and she couldn't quite work it out, felt it was just beyond her grasp, dancing at the edge of her mind.

It was the same thing, she thought, hurrying through the corridors towards her dressing room, that made her think her angel had been jealous of Raoul, that created butterflies in her stomach when she thought of how he had touched her.

She thought once more of the wedding dress, and then of the blue gown he had just gifted her with. Thought of the bouquets and supper requests she had received, and her disinterest in it all.

Wondered if she even knew what she was feeling, whether she missed her teacher and friend or whether…whether…

But she reached her dressing room, found her dresser waiting for her, and put the thoughts aside to concentrate on preparing for the performance.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine tossed and turned in her bed, tried to find a cooler place on her pillow, muffled her sigh in deference to her roommates; Meg, Giselle and Jammes were all sleeping peacefully, and Christine knew they'd been held after the performance for more practice, was loathe to make any sound that might wake them.<p>

The bed squeaked; Christine stilled, stared up into the darkness and wished for sleep. Wished even for sleepiness, for she was wide awake, and had been for some hours. She needed to sleep, she knew that – but sleep refused to come.

One of the others turned over in their bed, and Christine sighed into her pillow again. No, sleep would not come, and she couldn't keep lying here waiting for it.

She sat up, eased off the squeaky spring on the bed, found her slippers and dressing gown at the foot of her bed by touch. She put them on, made cautious half-steps across the floor to the door and then opened it just barely enough to allow her through. There was a lantern at the end of the dormitory corridor, and she lifted it off its hook, glanced back to make sure nobody had stirred.

The opera house was dark and quiet, and the lantern barely did more than light her feet, but Christine knew the way, knew where she was going, didn't falter or stumble at any point as she went down through the tiny back staircases, along corridors that grew a little larger as she moved into the working areas of the opera house, towards her dressing room.

There was really nowhere else for her to go, she reflected, and the dressing room, new as it was, had already become a private space for her, the kind she hadn't had since she had arrived at the opera house to work and live. She wasn't sure if it would remain hers, whether she would be moved to the communal dressing room once she was no longer playing a leading role or whether they would let her stay here, even though she would only play the mute part.

It wasn't something she had to think about yet; _Hannibal_ had barely been playing for a week, and Christine was resolved to enjoy the privacy while she had it.

She arrived, shut the door behind her and the candle guttered in the breeze, almost went out. Christine huffed a sigh, lifted it to check how much candle was left – and the dressing room lit up, a bright light from behind her, spreading into all the corners of the small room.

Christine lowered the lantern, turned very slowly, held her breath.

He was there, standing by the mirror, a lantern in his hand. He wore evening wear, as he had that other night just a few days ago – but it seemed longer, somehow, and for moments all Christine could do was look at him, stare at him, drink him in.

And he just looked back, blank white mask and the bare side of his face just as impassive.

Christine stepped forward, saw him flinch but only because she was watching so closely. She put her lantern on the dressing table, retreated again, resisted a strange urge to throw herself at him, to wrap her arms around him and beg him not to disappear again.

His hand clenched into a fist and then relaxed again, and still he said nothing. Christine's mouth was dry; she moistened her lips, tried to find the right words.

"Hello," she whispered at last, and he nodded, didn't reply. "I'm so sorry," Christine said then, and he nodded again.

"So you've said," he replied, and Christine swayed a little, so relieved to hear his voice again at last. "I heard all of it," he went on. "Everything you've said."

"Please believe me," said Christine fervently, and she stepped forwards again, stretched her hand out to him. "I've – I've missed you so much." He didn't flinch this time, didn't move at all, stood looking at her, implacable once more. The Opera Ghost, so fearsome, so terrifying.

But no, she told herself, he was her angel. She would not be frightened of him. She _would not be_.

"I've been learning the part of the countess," she said, the words tumbling out her mouth. "For _Il Muto_. Monsieur Reyer – he's rehearsing me. Away from the others." She glanced around wildly, knew she was babbling. The dressing table was empty – she'd left the music box there for him earlier, and she turned back to him. "Did – did you see?" she asked him. "I'm sorry, it's not...not much, but I thought…" She trailed off, lowered her gaze, discouraged by his continuing silence.

"Thank you," he said at last, and she lifted her head again, looked at him hopefully. "It was…thoughtful." He moved then, stepped to the dressing table and put the lamp down, remained there, barely an arm's reach away from her. She didn't reach out, couldn't reach out. Couldn't touch him unless he made some motion towards her first, wouldn't risk offending him.

The silence stretched agonisingly, until at last he sighed, turned away from her, and Christine made a sound, almost a cry, unable to bear it. He swung back, looked straight at her then, stepped closer, so close she could feel his breath on her face.

"Don't," he instructed, barely more than a whisper. "Don't cry, Christine. I can't bear to see you cry."

She couldn't resist any longer; she reached out to him, flung herself against his chest and wrapped her arms around his neck. He seemed to hesitate, but then his arms came around her waist, he held her close to him, and Christine buried her face against his shoulder. She bit her lip to keep from crying, hard enough to taste blood. His hands were warm at her waist, warm through just a few layers of cloth, and Christine would have felt immodest if this were any other man.

"I've missed you," she said, her words muffled by his shoulder, but she knew he heard her; his hand moved from her waist to stroke through her hair, and then he slowly pushed her away from him, far enough that they could look at each other. She looked up at him, at the mask and the face, saw his bloated, twisted lip, the mismatched colour of his eyes, the way he looked as if…

As if he were afraid of her. And Christine's breath caught in her throat as the past few days came into focus, made sense for the first time. He hadn't been angry with her – his anger, she realised now, must have faded quickly. He had been afraid of her reaction, afraid that she would shun him despite her repeated entreaties for him to come back to her. Shun him because of his face.

She moistened her lips again, and his eyes dropped, briefly, to her mouth. Her stomach fluttered, and for a moment, just a moment, she knew why.

Then he released her entirely, frowned down at her.

"You shouldn't wander around dressed like that," he muttered, and Christine wrapped her arms around herself, felt conscious suddenly that she was wearing her nightclothes.

"Nobody else is awake," she excused. "And I've worn much less on stage." His gaze turned intent suddenly, and she flushed, lowered her head, fidgeted with her hands.

"Would – would you like to resume lessons?" he asked her then, oddly hesitant, and Christine looked up at once, nodded eagerly. "You're doing well in _Hannibal_," he continued at her agreement, "but _Il Muto_ has different challenges."

"Yes, ang-" She cut herself off, bit her lip, and he gave a smile that lacked mirth. "I…I don't know your name," she whispered, acutely aware that she might be treading on dangerous ground, that this too might be too private for him, too much of an intrusion.

A man who wore a mask, who masqueraded as a ghost, might not wish anyone to know his name.

He sighed, turned his head so the white mask was towards her, concealing any hint of his expression. "I suppose you should know," he said, speaking slowly, as if it would cost him something to tell her. "Yes," he went on, turned back to her. "Yes, you should know. You of all people. My name is Erik."

Christine offered him a smile, recognised the offering for what it was. "Thank you," she said, and his mouth quirked into a smile again, he shook his head as if to deny the gratitude.

"You have apologised so often over the last few days," he said. "Did you ever pause to consider that it was I that owed you the apology?"

"But – your mask," Christine said, hugged herself tightly. "You do believe me? That I'm sorry?"

"You are sorry," he wondered, "and yet I was so close to striking you. And I have deceived you for years."

It was true, Christine could acknowledge, he had deceived her, but then she felt she had also chosen to be deceived, chosen to believe in an angel sent from her father – chosen to believe so when the stories of the Opera Ghost were rampant among her friends in the corps de ballet, indeed among the whole company.

"I chose it," she said, as much to herself as to him. "I could have questioned it. I'm not a child any longer. But I chose not to." She looked at him, held her hand out towards him again. "Could we not forgive each other?" she asked, and he looked at her outstretched hand, glanced up at her face as if he couldn't believe her, wouldn't believe her. "Angel – Erik – whoever you are, you have been my friend," she said. "You've never hurt me." He didn't reach for her, didn't take her hand, and she let it fall, defeated, turned away from him and lowered her head. "If you do not believe me I don't know what I shall do," she mumbled.

And a moment later he touched her shoulder, guided her gently back to face him. His words were harsh though, and she flinched at them.

"You have seen my face," he said, "and yet you still want my company? Want my teaching? All others have fled from the sight, Christine, how can I expect you to be different?"

"I don't know," she whispered miserably. "But – it's not your face that scared me, Angel." He moved away from her as if burned, and she lifted a hand to cover her mouth, felt tears threatening again and loathed herself for them.

"No," he said, "no, I cannot believe that…and yet…"

She turned away and the mirror caught her eye; in the lamplight their reflections were strange, and his mask seemed to shine out.

"You've never hurt me," she said again. "But…but you could. So easily." And in so many ways, she knew. He was strong, his temper was fierce, but his absence from her life would hurt infinitely more than anything else he could inflict.

"Oh Christine," he sighed, came back to her, stood behind her and joined her in gazing at the mirror. His hand skimmed over the curves at her waist, as if he wanted to touch but wouldn't, or couldn't, allow himself to do so. "You make me want to believe you," he said, and his breath was warm on her neck, she swayed back against him and exhaled shakily when at last he did touch, at last placed one hand at her waist and the other on her shoulder.

"Can we not start anew?" she whispered hopefully. "Will you give me a chance to make amends?" His hand slid around to her front, pulled her close to him the way he had that night, that wonderful, terrible night. She trembled under his touch, felt that knowledge once again within her grasp. Excitement, she realised. Desire.

And then he withdrew, his hands slipping off her so reluctantly, so slowly, and he stepped away from her. She turned, wanted to reach out to him but felt too shy.

"We'll resume our lessons tomorrow afternoon," he said. "If you agree, we can go down to my home. The organ there will be a better accompaniment."

"Of course," she said, breathless in her joy. He would not abandon her again, would teach her again – would, she hoped, be her friend again.

"Meet me here at three," he said. "Bring your score for _Il Muto_. I mean you to be prepared to take the role of the countess. Carlotta will not remain leading soprano here for long."

Christine did not, could not object. She smiled at him, took up her lantern again – darted forward, pressed a kiss to his bare cheek.

"Thank you," she breathed, and fled the dressing room before he could react.


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>The restaurant Raoul had taken her to wasn't one Christine had ever been to before; it catered for the upper classes, and she could feel eyes on her as the waiter pulled her chair out, handed her a menu.<p>

Raoul seemed ignorant of her discomfort, or ignored it, sat down opposite her and smiled boyishly.

"I've been looking forward to this all week," he told her, and Christine smiled back, put aside her self-consciousness. She was dressed well enough to be here, she knew that – she was wearing Erik's gift, the beautiful blue dress he'd sent her, and Meg had helped her pin up her hair elegantly. It made her look older, she'd felt when she'd looked in the mirror this morning, or older than her seventeen years, at least.

"So have I," she said. "How are you, Raoul? And Philippe?"

"Philippe is just the same as ever," said Raoul, with an expressive roll of his eyes. He'd never got on well with his elder brother, Christine remembered, probably due to the vast age difference between them. "And I am well, as you see. I needn't ask how you are – you've been dazzling on the stage all week."

Christine felt herself flush. "Thank you," she murmured. "It's been quite a strange experience." Raoul tilted his head, waited for her to continue, and she wondered how to explain it to him, whether she could possibly find the right words. "It isn't quite the way it's done," she said at last. "A nobody coming from nowhere to take a leading role."

"But you're not a nobody," Raoul said, and Christine shook her head, felt a smile tug at her mouth.

"I have spent the last eight years as a ballet dancer, Raoul, not a singer," she reminded him, and caught the way he glanced around, as if embarrassed, as if to make sure nobody overheard her. It made her uncomfortable, and she clasped her hands together in her lap, fell silent.

"Anyway, you're a star now," he said, and she nodded. She couldn't think of herself that way. She had a starring role, had received favourable reviews, and she had certainly worked for it – worked for years, in silence – but what she'd said was true. She was in effect a nobody; a member of the corps de ballet, not even a chorus member. Cast members had congratulated her, but she'd seen the speculation in their eyes, had heard the gossip they'd whispered behind her back.

Raoul could understand none of this, she knew – it was so outside his experience. For him, the theatre was something one went to see, and enjoyed or not, and he would think little of the lives or careers of those onstage.

Perhaps, she thought idly, as the waiter returned to take their order, she could speak to Erik about it. He would understand.

"It's a shame this mysterious ghost has frightened the managers into giving Carlotta the lead in the next production," Raoul said then, oblivious to her inner musings. "I've seen her several times. She's…" He paused, clearly trying to find the right words, and Christine grinned, waited to see what he would say. "Unique," Raoul said at last, and she laughed, nodded.

"That's one way of putting it," she said. "My teacher says she should have retired long ago. Her voice was good, once, but she's fallen into bad habits."

"I know nothing about singing or acting, but I can believe it," said Raoul, and he gave her an oddly thoughtful look. "You seem so happy," he said after a moment. "I've thought of you so often, since we last saw each other."

"I've thought of you, too," said Christine, paused to let the waiter pour the wine, waited until he had faded away before continuing. "And of those days we spent together, before Father…" Her voice dried up; even now, she couldn't think of him, of those last months they'd had together, without feeling overwhelmed with grief.

It had been eight years since he had died, and yet it was so close still. He had been her only companion, a friend as well as a father, and at first when he'd brought them to Paris she hadn't understood, hadn't seen it as anything but a new experience. But he'd grown weaker and weaker, and at last had taken to his bed and never risen.

She'd thought, at first, that she would never be happy again. But Madame Giry had taken her to the opera house, looked after her as a guardian, and she had made friends, grown used to the loss.

She had met her angel, her Erik, and she couldn't help smiling at the thought.

"I am happy," she said, and Raoul didn't lose his thoughtful expression. Christine couldn't quite meet his eyes for some reason, reached for her wine and sipped it.

"I'm glad," he said eventually. "Truly." He smiled then, banished the odd look and became cheerful once more. "You must tell me all about your life. I want to hear everything."

Christine doubted it, somehow, but she nodded, put her wine glass down. "What would you like to know?" she asked, and tilted her head, smiled. "Are you still trying to find out where I live?"

To his credit, Raoul flushed, ducked his head, glanced up at her with a sheepish expression. "I was worried," he claimed. "Nobody knew where you were."

"Madame Giry knew," Christine pointed out, and she wasn't lying – Madame Giry _had _known where she was, even if she hadn't been able to say. "Perhaps," she added, "you weren't talking to the right people."

Raoul frowned. "What do you mean?" he asked, and Christine almost sighed.

"The managers are new," she said gently, "and I was new to them. I live in the opera house, Raoul, in the ballet dormitories. I share a room with Meg Giry, Giselle Landry and Jammes Dupont. They're dancers in the corps de ballet." She could tell by his face that she had shocked him, but neither of them could speak for a few minutes as waiters descended upon them with their starters.

At last they left, and Raoul leaned forwards a little, intent. "But surely," he said, "there are apartments near to the theatre."

Christine shrugged a little, lifted her spoon and began drinking her soup. "I suppose there are," she said, "but quite beyond my reach. Oh Raoul," she said then with a sigh, "you must try to remember that I'm not La Daaé, lead soprano at the Opera Populaire. Or at least I have become so only this last week."

"I – I know that," he muttered, but his frown didn't fade, he stared down at the table as if deep in concentration. Christine didn't speak; she enjoyed her soup in silence and occupied herself with glancing discreetly around at the other patrons in the restaurant, marvelling at the finery.

"I imagine it's a little like boarding school," Raoul said at last, and he seemed to be trying to understand, trying to meet her halfway.

"I suppose," she agreed. "Yes, and Madame Giry is our school mistress, intent on maintaining discipline." She smiled at him, hoped he would try to overcome his surprise – his shock. "We're all perfectly behaved, of course."

"Oh, of course," Raoul agreed gravely, but there was a twinkle in his eye, the corner of his mouth lifted in a shared expression of mirth. He _was_ trying, Christine could see, and it pleased her. "I'm sure you all behave perfectly." Christine laughed, and he joined in, grinning across the table at her. "Perhaps you could introduce me," he said then, and Christine hesitated just for a moment. "Only if you want," he added, seeing her unease.

"You would like Meg, I think," said Christine slowly. "She is like a sister to me." She fell silent then, thought of Meg's concern for her, thought of the way she'd been so pleased that Christine was going to lunch with Raoul. Then she shook herself, smiled at Raoul, a fake little smile that she was sure he wouldn't see through. "Yes, perhaps I could introduce you," she said. "We both have rehearsals during the week, but perhaps next Saturday."

"That's almost a week," said Raoul, and Christine wasn't sure what he was objecting to. "Are you sure I can't persuade you to come to supper with me?" he asked then.

"Absolutely sure," she said, and his mouth twisted into a scowl. "Raoul," she chided softly, "I am glad I can still count you as a friend. And as my friend, I am sure you will respect my vocation."

"Mademoiselle? Forgive the intrusion."

Christine looked up, startled, at the gentleman who had stopped beside their table on his way out of the restaurant. He was elderly, stooped over a cane, but his eyes were bright and his smile friendly.

"You are Mademoiselle Daaé, yes?" he said, and she nodded. "I thought so. You will forgive my intrusion, I hope? But I saw you here and I had to come over. I saw your performance last night at the opera."

"Of course I forgive you," said Christine, and she smiled up at him. "I hope you enjoyed it?"

"I can't think when I last had such a pleasurable evening," he said. "I hope we shall see much more of you in the future." He bowed, retreated before she could speak, and Christine felt herself flushing – from happiness this time, from the knowledge that she had pleased her audience.

"La Daaé indeed," said Raoul eventually, and Christine could tell he was surprised. "You're going to become quite in demand, I can see."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," she said gaily, and she smiled at him, waited for him to smile back at her. "I'm still the same Christine," she said. "I'm only doing what I always wanted to do." He nodded; even as children together, she had always wanted to sing.

"And besides," she went on, "I can hardly be in demand, as you say, for much longer. Carlotta takes the lead in _Il Muto_, remember?"

"Oh yes," he sighed. "My poor ears." She laughed again, amused, thought of similar comments Erik had made on occasion. But he was thoughtful, regarded her once more with that strange, inquiring look. "But I'm not sure you are the same," he said slowly. "You're…there's something…"

Christine lowered her gaze, sipped her wine again. People changed, but at heart she was the same, she knew – the same girl who sang with her father's violin, who felt the music as if it were a living thing within her. She was older, of course, although hardly more wise. More worldly, perhaps, after living for eight years in an opera house, among dancers and chorus members and stage hands.

She thought of Erik, or rather the thoughts of him became prominent, for she hadn't been able to banish them, returned again and again to their meeting last night, their conversation.

The way he had touched her, as if he could never tire of touching her.

"You are different," Raoul pronounced, and she felt as though he saw her as some mystery to be unravelled. "You're not that little girl any longer." It was almost an accusation, but Christine smiled, shrugged a little.

"Nobody can stay a child forever," she said. And then the waiters came with their main course, and although Christine managed to distract him, to talk of their shared memories of Perros-Guirec, she was aware of his considering gaze on her throughout the rest of the meal.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"Did you have an enjoyable lunch?"<p>

Christine didn't jump – she'd expected him to be waiting for her in the dressing room – but she inhaled sharply, looked at him and wondered why she was surprised that he knew where she had been. He was the Opera Ghost, and he knew all.

"Not really," she said, and her voice was steady despite her nervousness. He was standing by the mirror, the hidden door swung wide open, and he was once again in evening dress – did he ever wear anything else, she wondered, and dismissed it as inconsequential, particularly given the way he was looking, the expression on his face so clear even with the mask.

"We were friends when I was a child," she said, knew she wasn't telling him anything he didn't know. "But…he doesn't understand my life now."

And Erik softened, just a little. "No," he murmured. "Of course he does not."

"I spent most of the time trying not to say anything he'd find shocking," Christine confessed. "And…and thinking of you." And her confession was rewarded with a slight smile, enough to warm her and let her know she was forgiven for whatever sin she had committed in going for lunch with an old friend.

"Are you ready for your lesson?" he asked, and held a hand out to her expectantly. Christine nodded at once, went to collect her copy of the score from the dressing table, took his hand. "Don't try to come this way alone," he warned her then. "There are traps in places, in the walls and floors. It would be too dangerous."

"Yes, Erik," she said obediently. She didn't think she would be able to remember the way anyway, at least not until he had brought her to his home many more times. The route twisted and turned so many times, sometimes in hidden corridors, sometimes in little-used stairways, and Christine seemed to lose all sense of direction almost as soon as he led her into the tunnel behind the mirror.

At last they reached the lake; the boat was waiting there, tethered to the shore with a rope, and Erik helped her in, loosed the rope and pushed away from the shore. It was dark here, deep underneath the opera house, although there was a lantern in the prow of the little boat. At times the roof was so low Erik had to bend over, and Christine wondered why she didn't remember this from last time.

But then she had been so ecstatic, so mesmerised, that the journey remained in her memory as little more than a blur.

They reached the far shore – Erik's home. He leaped out, tied the boat and then held his hand out for her once more, brought her from the boat. He led her across the shore, touched a switch almost hidden in the rock, and she glanced back to see the portcullis lower, sink down from the high roof into the depths of the lake. Protection, she knew, from any who found their way down here.

"Come," he commanded, drew her through an opening in the rock and into his home. Christine glanced around eagerly; she remembered a little, from before, remembered the many candles and candelabra, the organ there in pride of place, remembered the low sofa she'd slept on. But there were things she had not remembered, or had not seen at all. Two doors set into the rock, a fireplace laid ready for a fire – where, she wondered, did the smoke go? There was a violin resting haphazardly on a table, papers scattered beneath it, and she knew it to be the violin that had accompanied her during her lessons.

"Come," Erik said again, and she hurried to join him at the organ, put down her score and stood, waited for him to sound a note to begin warming up. But he paused, looked at her for a moment, and Christine twisted her hands together, waited for his cue. He shook his head at last, settled his hands on the organ.

"Begin," he said at last, and Christine started her scales, pushed away all other thoughts but music.

They rehearsed for over two hours, pausing only to allow Christine a glass of water halfway through, but Erik seemed pleased with her progress, with how well she already knew the part, and when at last they finished she almost wanted to protest, to keep going. She didn't; too well-trained, she reflected, to question her teacher's orders, at least out loud.

"Very good," said Erik. "Practice the act two aria before our next lesson, remember what I said about the emotion of the piece." She nodded, gathered her score together neatly. "We won't be able to have a lesson for several days," he muttered, more to himself than to her, it seemed. "Rehearsals…" He shook his head. "It is no matter. Reyer is rehearsing Carlotta on Tuesday afternoon, we can meet then."

"I – I'm dreading the first full-cast rehearsal," Christine admitted, and he glanced at her, startled for a moment, and then he smiled slightly. "Carlotta isn't going to be pleased with me," Christine went on. She'd shared such confidences with him often, before he had revealed himself – had treated him as her friend as well as her teacher, and she thought he wanted that still. "Monsieur Reyer is, I think, on my side, but even he can't control her. She's going to do her best to make me regret being put in her place."

"Not in her place," Erik corrected. "Your own. You are far superior to her, Christine." Christine blushed, dropped her gaze at the praise, and he reached out, touched her chin with a finger and raised her head so she was looking at him again. There was something there in his expression, in his eyes – something she could almost grasp, almost understand, but not quite.

"That – that won't stop her," she said, breathless suddenly, although she didn't know whether it was because of his touch or the way he was looking at her. "You know it won't." He dropped his hand then, turned away from her so she could only see the white mask. A thought terrified her, and she reached out, grasped his arm.

"You won't – you won't do anything to her, will you?" she asked. "You won't hurt Carlotta?"

He sighed then, covered her hand with his but didn't look at her. "If you wish it," he said, and Christine stared at him, shivered. He could hurt Carlotta, she knew. Could hurt anybody, anyone who stood between her and success. Would do it if not for her, and that terrified her most of all, more than his temper, more than the half-remembered glimpse of his face.

She had power over him, and it _terrified_ her.

"But," he said, ignorant of her inner turmoil, and he glanced at her, his mouth curving in a smirk, "I cannot promise not to make her life as unpleasant as she will no doubt endeavour to make yours."

Christine felt herself relax, felt a tension in her spine easing, hadn't even realised how tense she had become. "As long as you don't hurt her," she said, tried to make her tone light – wasn't quite sure she managed it, wasn't sure she concealed her fear well enough. But Erik didn't comment; he slid his hand from hers and pulled away from her, went to replace a candle that had melted into a puddle of wax.

"I should take you back up," he said, and Christine stifled an instinctive cry. She didn't want to go back up, at least not yet. She wouldn't be missed for hours yet, and she wanted…

She wanted to know more of him, she realised, and chastised herself. Her curiosity had led to his anger, to the rift that had separated them for days. And yet now she was filled with questions once more, questions that she was certain he would not want to answer.

So she nodded, turned to collect her score. "Yes, Erik," she said, dully, obediently. She would obey him, she resolved. She would not ask questions.

He appeared beside her without sound, looked at her wonderingly. "I could almost believe you want to stay here," he murmured, and Christine said nothing, looked at him with wide eyes, bit her tongue to keep from speaking, from saying something foolish. Erik shook his head, stared at her in obvious bewilderment. "Let it be your choice, then," he said at last. "Stay or go."

Christine hesitated then, just for a moment, and Erik's lip curled into a faint sneer.

"No," he said, not angry but with a bitter note to his voice. "Why should you want to stay here, in the cold and the dark…with me."

"But I do," Christine said softly, shrinking away from him. "I do want to stay, Erik. But I don't…" She wrapped her arms about herself, kept her gaze on the floor. "I don't want to intrude," she murmured, almost inaudible.

"Intrude," he echoed. "Intrude! Christine, you –" He broke off, stretched his hand out to her, waited for her to place her own hand in his. "You do not intrude," he said. "You could never intrude."

Christine wanted to protest, to remind him that she _had_ intruded, in such a manner that she hadn't been sure they could recover from it. But she could recognise an olive branch, could see he truly wanted her to stay, and so she nodded, smiled.

"I should very much like to stay, then," she said. "If you're sure it's alright."

"Very well," said Erik, and he released her hand, gestured for her to sit in one of the chairs by the fireplace. "I'm unaccustomed to guests," he said. "I'll light the fire. I have tea, if you'd care for some."

"Please," Christine said, sat down and tried not to watch as he knelt gracefully, put a match to the kindling in the grate. He rose, glanced at her and then went to one of the doors.

"I'll be just a moment," he assured her, and left her alone. Christine leaned back in the chair, rested her elbow on the arm and settled her chin in her hand as she watched the fire catch at the kindling, flicker into life.

She almost relished the moment alone, the chance to take a breath, to relax, for she couldn't help feeling she had to be so careful with Erik. So very careful, because although he hid it well, she could see his fear, underlying his interactions with her. His belief that she couldn't want to be with him, to spend time with him not merely as his pupil.

Christine had to wonder who had treated him so badly that his immediate instinct was to flinch away from a touch, to lash out with disbelief at any expression of friendship.

But she pushed the question from her mind, reminded herself that she would not, _could_ not, ask questions of him. Perhaps at some point in the future, when he trusted her again – because she knew he still lacked trust in her, still expected her to reject him.

The fire sputtered, the kindling no longer enough to sustain it, and Christine went to kneel in front of it, added a few more sticks and then put a log on the fire. She stayed there, gazed at the growing flames, remembered how her father had made stories out of the pictures the flames created, entertaining her in long winter evenings when he hadn't been engaged to play his violin.

"What are you doing?"

She glanced up, startled; once again Erik had crept up on her, and she bit back a smile as she realised how his silent movements must aid his disguise as a ghost. He was frowning down at her, reached to help her up.

"The fire needed tending," she said, took his hand and rose. She was close to him then, so close, and it flustered her; she stepped back, returned to her seat. "It must get very cold here in winter," she said, and it sounded inane even to her own ears.

"I suppose," he said diffidently, and brought a tray with teacups, a small milk jug. The pieces were mismatched, she saw, but she didn't comment. "I don't notice the cold particularly. And I can always go upstairs."

"Good," she said, accepted her cup. "I'd hate to think of you freezing down here." She glanced at him over the cup, waited to see how he would respond. She would learn him, piece by piece, feel him out, slowly make him understand that he could trust her.

He didn't say anything, but she could see a faint uptilt to his mouth, almost a smile. She counted it as a success.


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Rehearsals were just as bad as Christine had been dreading. In fact they were worse, as most of her scenes as the mute pageboy involved Carlotta, who made no attempt to conceal her utter loathing of Christine. She snapped, she snarled, she denigrated Christine's abilities and she took every opportunity to make Christine's life more difficult.<p>

Monsieur Reyer did his best, as Christine had hoped he would. He allowed Christine to leave whenever she wasn't strictly needed, attempted to keep Carlotta from being too vicious. But nobody could control Carlotta, and Christine was growing more and more weary as she rehearsed daily with such venom directed at her, and then had to perform each evening.

That, at least, was still going well; the audiences seemed pleased, and she knew Erik was satisfied with her. But still by the end of the day she often found herself sitting in her dressing room, head in her hands, half-wishing Erik would follow through on his promise of creating mischief for Carlotta and half-dreading the inevitable occurrence. He'd said nothing more about it during their lessons, but she knew he must be aware of the diva's behaviour.

Today was one of the worst days since the company had begun rehearsing _Il Muto_, and it was, Christine reflected ruefully, only lunchtime. She hadn't gone to the canteen with the others, had instead hidden herself down in the orchestra pit with her copy of the score. She almost knew it all, after three weeks of rehearsals, but she also had two sets of blocking to learn, and it gave her an excuse to hide away.

"Mademoiselle Daaé? May I join you?"

Christine looked up, startled. Henri Lambert, one of the baritones, had joined her in the pit. He smiled at her, friendly and open.

"I saw you disappear down here," he said. "Are you working, or do you mind if I join you?"

"Of course," she said politely. She hadn't spoken much to Henri. They shared scenes in _Hannibal_, and would share some in _Il Muto_, but Christine had become more and more withdrawn over the past fortnight, as Carlotta's attacks grew ever more fierce. It was as much an attempt to protect her cast mates from the diva's temper as a way to protect herself – Carlotta had begun attacking those Christine spoke to, even the dancers, those she would normally consider beneath her notice.

"I saw you didn't go to lunch," Henri said, and he held out a roll, some fruit. "I took the liberty. I hope you don't mind." It was a friendly gesture, and Christine took the food, nodded thankfully.

"I couldn't face it," she admitted. "Carlotta's gone out, of course, but…"

"But her retinue remain," said Henri, grinning at her. "I don't blame you, Mademoiselle."

"Please, call me Christine," she said. She smiled then, weary. "Aren't you afraid to be seen with me? Carlotta seems to have spies everywhere."

Henri shrugged eloquently, took a seat, looked up at the stage. "Not really," he said. "I probably should be, shouldn't I? But I have a thick skin." Christine nodded; it was essential when working in such a hive of gossip as the Opera Populaire.

"I fear mine has become quite thin," she confessed, pushed her hair behind her shoulders and tore the roll in half. "I don't think I've ever see Carlotta be this…spiteful."

"She's bitter," said Henri, shrugging again. "You've been such a success, and she hates to see anyone succeed."

Christine looked at him thoughtfully, tried to recall what she knew of him. He was, she remembered, stepping out with Heléne, one of the dancers, and Heléne spoke of him as being gentlemanly, not expecting things of her that many men expected of the dancers. He'd been one of the first to congratulate Christine on gaining the role in _Hannibal_, and now that he sat across from her, she could recall that he hadn't done so with a sly expression as so many had done.

He wasn't a gossip-monger, Christine suspected, and the thought made her relax. She nibbled on the roll, brushed crumbs from her skirt.

"I didn't set out with the intention of taking the role from her," she said, kept her voice low. They were alone in the orchestra pit, but the opera house was busy and anyone might overhear. She didn't want anything to get back to Carlotta. "Anyway," she added, "she could have stayed in the theatre. She chose to leave."

Henri smirked. "After the way the managers brushed aside the accident?" he said, shook his head. "You know the Ghost has been playing many tricks on her lately."

Christine said nothing, thought of Erik, thought of what he must surely be planning now. She shivered, applied herself to the lunch Henri had brought her.

"Whoever he is, he knows how to make Carlotta run scared," Henri continued. "I dare say you'd like to know how he does it."

"I certainly don't want to hurt anyone," she said sharply, sharper than she needed, and he leaned back on his stool, raised his eyebrows. "I – I'm sorry, I'm just…" Christine sighed, covered her face with her hands. "I'm sorry, Monsieur," she said again. "I'm – oh, I'm just so tired of her pettiness! I didn't ask for the role and I likely won't get another. Isn't that enough for her?"

Henri was silent, and Christine felt ashamed of her outburst. She took several deep, calming breaths, lowered her hands.

Awareness prickled down her spine; Erik was watching them. She was certain of it, and she wondered how much he had heard. He knew, of course, that she was reaching the end of her endurance, that with every day of rehearsals Carlotta beat down at her defences – but he had said he would not hurt her, had all but promised her, and Christine would hold him to it. If he chose to act, she must believe that it would be more of the mischief that he had perpetuated for several years, on Carlotta and others.

"Thick skin, Mademoiselle Daaé," said Henri softly, and Christine summoned a smile, nodded at him.

"Thank you," she said. "But please…you must call me Christine. It's silly to be so formal."

Henri smiled, inclined his head. "As you wish, Christine. Then it must be Henri." He glanced up at the stage; the cast were slowly returning for the afternoon's rehearsals. "Back to work," he said with a moue of distaste. "You won't be needed all afternoon, will you?"

"I hope not!" said Christine fervently. She rose, collected her score and followed Henri back to the stage. Carlotta had not returned yet – she was often late after lunch – but Monsieur Reyer didn't allow that to stop rehearsals, managed to work around it as always.

"I would ideally like to rehearse you with the cast," he said to Christine, taking her aside briefly as the rest of the cast found their places. "But I'm not sure I dare run the risk of Carlotta finding you."

Christine was grateful, took her place as the mute with no argument. If she were an official understudy, or if Carlotta were not Carlotta, it would be different. She knew she could not be as good, could not reach her potential as an actress, without working with others. Erik taught her well, and Reyer had, as he had promised, found time to rehearse her alone – but it could not make up for rehearsing the scenes with others.

But she would not be the Countess, she reminded herself. She would play the mute, and was grateful for it.

Carlotta arrived nearly an hour late, enough to drive Reyer to be quite short with her, and she responded in the only way she seemed able to lately.

"I do not need these silly rehearsals," she snapped. "We have done this production a hundred times!"

"Nevertheless, Signora," said Monsieur Reyer, staring her down, "please attempt to be punctual."

"Punctual, pah," said the diva. "These rehearsals are a waste of my time."

Laughter echoed around the stage, around the whole auditorium, and Christine started, glanced up as if she would be able to see him – to see Erik, who was clearly watching proceedings and feeling inclined to mock Carlotta.

Meg came to her side, clutched her hand and said nothing. Other cast members huddled together, muttering to themselves; Carlotta looked around, fearful. Only Reyer seemed unaffected. He clapped his hands together, looked around with a scowl.

"Come, come," he said. "Waste of your time or not, Signora, if you would be good enough to take your starting position for act four? Mademoiselle Daaé, your position please."

Christine squeezed Meg's hand and then hurried forwards to join Carlotta at stage left. The diva was pale, and Christine felt a certain sense of satisfaction at seeing her shaken. But it didn't last long – as soon as Carlotta set eyes on her, she sneered a familiar sneer.

"You. Why don't you just run back to Norway or wherever it is you came from? Nobody wants you here," she said.

"I'm from Sweden," said Christine, counted to ten in her head and then backwards in an attempt to keep her temper. Thick skin, she reminded herself. "And anyway," she went on, surprising herself with her boldness, "I think you'll find I am wanted here. At least the audiences seem pleased to see someone who can actually act."

Carlotta's mouth opened, she gaped, and Christine could hear gasps and startled murmurs all around. Nobody had spoken to Carlotta like that in years, she was certain, and she didn't know how she'd found the strength to do it now. Perhaps it was Henri's supportive comments, perhaps it was the knowledge that Erik was watching.

Regardless, she had said it, and she waited for Carlotta's response, lifted her chin and stared at the diva, refusing to be intimidated.

"You – you – how dare you!" Carlotta seethed at last. "I will not stand here and listen to this – this insolence, from someone like you!"

"Signora," said Monsieur Reyer, interjecting himself between them, "I must insist on your attention."

"No!" she declared, dramatically, and Christine stifled a sigh, waited for whatever Carlotta was about to throw at her. "I will not work with this – this – this little whore!"

Christine gasped, took a step backwards. Meg joined her, indignant and unafraid of Carlotta, added her protests to those of Monsieur Reyer, but Christine heard nothing for several moments together, so shocked by the slur.

And then she heard a voice, that oh-so-familiar voice, speaking as if from thin air.

"I should be careful who you insult, Signora," whispered the Ghost. "It would be such a shame if you had to be…replaced."

Christine's breath caught in her throat; it was not a threat, not quite, but it was close enough to scare her, close enough to send a shiver down her spine. She glanced at Meg, saw her friend's white face, looked at Carlotta and found her just as pale. Perhaps, she thought wildly, Carlotta had hoped the Opera Ghost had disappeared, had accepted the managers' decision to put her in the lead once more.

But even Carlotta could not be that foolish.

Meg took her hand, squeezed it, and Christine looked at her once again, tried to work out what she was thinking but Meg's expression was carefully blank.

"If you have no more objections, we will begin," said Monsieur Reyer at last, and he seemed to be the only one of them unshaken, the only one to take the Ghost's voice as a matter of course. "Act four, Signora. Mademoiselle, if you are ready?" He saw Meg, looked down his nose at her. "Mademoiselle Giry, you are not needed for this scene," he told her. "Please clear the stage."

"Sorry, Monsieur," Meg murmured, went to wait in the wings for her cue. Christine looked at Carlotta, waited for her to begin, and tried not to think of what Erik might be planning.


	9. Chapter 9

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine removed her tiara and costume jewellery, rolled her shoulders, leaned her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands.<p>

"You promised you wouldn't hurt her," she said softly to the man she knew was behind the mirror. She had become so aware of him over the last few weeks, so very conscious of his presence. It was a prickling of her skin, a shiver down her spine, and something more, something indefinable.

He knew of it, of course, knew she could sense him this way, and she thought it amused him, a little.

"I have not done so," he replied at last, and Christine turned, looked at the mirror, saw it move aside to let her see him. He didn't step through, stood just on the other side and looked at her. "I believe I've shown remarkable restraint, in fact," he continued.

Christine sighed, rose and went to him, took his hand and drew him through into the dressing room. "Thank you," she said. "But please, I know you're planning something." His hand was cold in hers, and she held it between hers, hoped to share her warmth.

"She crossed a line today," Erik said, an ominous note in his voice, and Christine lowered her head, thought of Carlotta's harsh words. Thought of being called a – a –

She couldn't even think the word to herself. She had been a dancer for years, knew what people thought of dancers and actresses. But nobody had ever called her that, and Christine thought she could have coped better with being slapped.

Erik's fingers brushed across her cheek and she looked up at him, tried to smile.

"She'll stop once _Hannibal_ is over," she said, and hoped it would be true. Once she was no longer a star, Carlotta would have no reason to be bitter, no reason to be jealous. Things wouldn't go back to the way they had been, but it would be easier, and Christine could wait, could take smaller parts and build a reputation, work to have title roles once again.

"She will," said Erik, and the threat was so clear that Christine dropped his hand, stepped away from him.

"I don't want anyone hurt," she said, tried to make him understand, tried to make him _agree_. "Please, Erik."

"You should be the prima donna," he said, refusing to answer her directly, and she shook her head, couldn't speak. "Your talent far exceeds whatever she might have had once, before she allowed bad habits and behaviour to strip her of it." He stepped close to her again, stared down at her, and her teacher fell away, all Christine could see was the Phantom. She was suddenly very aware of his mask, that blank white mask that hid his face and disguised his expression.

"You've worked so long," he murmured, and he was persuasive now, his voice almost hypnotic. "So hard, Christine, for what we've both wanted. You want to be on the stage, don't you? You know you should be there."

"Yes," Christine said, voice barely a whisper, and she swayed towards him, wanted to reach out and touch him but didn't quite dare. She did want that; she had been a star for nearly four weeks, had been on stage as more than just a barely-noticed member of a group, and she loved it. She loved the applause, the lights, the music she was singing, and she didn't want it to stop.

"I could make it happen again," he told her, and at once the spell was broken; Christine turned away, shook her head, wrapped her arms about her middle. "The managers must learn, Christine. This is my opera house and I will not be disobeyed."

"They won't listen," said Christine. "And why should they? I'm still an unknown, untried, and Carlotta has been the leading soprano here for so long."

"You're neither unknown nor untried now," Erik pointed out. "It is pointless trying to lie to me, Christine. You want to be on that stage as much as I want to see you there."

"I'm not trying to lie," she cried, turning back to him. "But I know you've hurt people before and I can't – I can't –" She cut herself off, bit back the words. She couldn't be falling in love with someone who hurt people, she wanted to say, but she couldn't, wouldn't say it. Because she had only really known him as a person for a few weeks and she still knew so little of him, still felt like she had to be so careful about him. Was still scared of him, in many ways.

No, she could not say it, could barely even admit it to herself most of the time.

"I said I wouldn't hurt her," said Erik, almost careless. "I've had plenty of opportunity, believe me." Christine nodded; she did believe him, and that was part of the problem. But she could say nothing more now, knew nothing she said could persuade him. All she could do was hope he would be restrained – for her sake, if for nothing else.

"Your last performance is on Saturday," he said then and Christine nodded again. The theatre would be dark until the following Wednesday, the performers and musicians given a short break before the premiere of _Il Muto_. "Have you any plans for the break?" he asked.

"I hadn't really thought about it," she said. She knew Raoul had been trying to see her again, had been putting him off both because of Erik's jealousy and her own mixed feelings regarding her childhood friend. Meg had suggested they take a train to the country, get away from Paris for a day or so, and Madame Giry had been cautiously supportive of the idea. Christine rather liked the idea of just picking out a town or village on a map, finding an inn to stay in overnight and enjoying the last good weather of the autumn. Just the three of them, a rare treat.

It would probably do her good to get away from the opera house, she could acknowledge. It had been a hard few weeks – her debut, the gossip, and of course Erik.

She looked up at him, wondered whether she could leave him for even that long. Knew that she should, if only to try to work out what exactly she felt for her angel. Her Ghost.

Because if the past few weeks had shown her nothing else, they had shown her that he _was_ hers. He was devoted to her. When she was in his home, deep below the opera house, he was attentive and careful of her. He was still her strict tutor, of course, but she had grown accustomed to staying afterwards if she could, sharing tea with him, and he seemed so solicitous, so eager to please. After performances, when she was tired, she always came back to her dressing room to find a warm drink, and sometimes something to eat – her dresser assumed it was one of her friends in the corps de ballet, and Christine said nothing to disabuse her of the notion.

Erik wanted only her comfort, her happiness.

Her success.

A knock on the door startled her, startled them both.

"Just a moment," Christine called hastily. She wrapped her dressing gown more securely about her, watched as Erik went silently through the mirror and closed the entrance behind him. She was sure he wouldn't leave, but she didn't care. "Come in," she said, and the door opened, Raoul stepped inside. Christine bit back a startled exclamation.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," Raoul greeted her. "I'd hoped to catch you before you retired." He glanced around, as if looking for someone else – as if he expected to see someone else in the room, and Christine kept herself still, kept herself from glancing at the mirror. "I thought I heard someone," Raoul said then, looked at her inquiringly.

"I was going over my lines," Christine said, wondered when she had become so capable of lying. It was easier to think of it as playing a part, but she was still deceiving her old friend, and she didn't like it. "It helps to learn them before I go to bed," she added, when Raoul didn't seem to believe her. "I can't do it upstairs, with the others, it would disturb them."

"Lines – but – I thought your next part was…" Raoul trailed off, turned his hat in his hands. "Well, mute," he said at last, awkward.

"Yes, but I'm Carlotta's understudy," she told him. "Unofficially." She smiled at his expression, the way he rolled his eyes. Raoul had clearly formed his opinion of Carlotta, and Christine could see it was not a favourable one.

"Yes, I've been hearing the rumours," Raoul said. "Everyone here seems to expect this mysterious opera ghost to step in and do something to prevent her performing."

"Theatre people are very superstitious," said Christine lightly. Her heart was beating faster, her breath a little quicker, but she was sure he wouldn't be able to see the lie. "We have all sorts of ideas and customs that I'm sure would seem very silly to you."

"Perhaps," said Raoul with a nod, but he seemed unconvinced, glanced around once more as if – as if –

"I should be getting upstairs," she said then, turned away from him and went to tidy her dressing table. "Was there something you wanted, Raoul?"

"I've been trying to see you all week," Raoul told her, and she could hear his frustration, knew he must be aware she had been trying to avoid him. It wasn't that she no longer liked him, but their encounters since he had re-entered her life had been a little stilted, a little uncomfortable. Her life was so very different to his, and he seemed unable to grasp the realities of her daily life, her career.

He could never understand the thrill of performance, the drive to improve – more than that, Christine knew he would never be able to understand how their friendship might be seen.

Carlotta's accusation seemed to press down on her, a weight she could not ignore.

"I've been very busy," she said at last. "I'm sorry, Raoul. Things will be easier next week, after the new production starts. It runs until Christmas, you know, so I won't have rehearsals during the day."

"I know you have some time off," said Raoul, persistent. "Perhaps we could meet then?" Christine hesitated, and Raoul sighed, stepped back. "With Meg as well," he tried. "You said you'd introduce us, you know."

Christine nodded slowly, thoughtful. Yes, she had agreed to introduce Meg, and she knew that if the three of them went out together, people wouldn't talk as much.

"Alright," she said. "I'll talk to Meg. We may be leaving Paris for a day or so, but I'm sure we can arrange something." Raoul smiled at her and she returned the smile, relieved he seemed to accept her offer, wasn't pushing for more. "Will you be in for the last night on Saturday? I'll let you know then."

Raoul took the hint, went back to the door. "I'll see you then," he agreed. "I'll look forward to it." Christine nodded, waited for him to leave, made sure the door was shut firmly and then she sighed, leaned against the dressing table and looked to the mirror.

"He is determined," observed Erik, faceless behind the glass. Christine nodded, silent. "Will you see him?"

"I don't know, Erik," she said, sighing again. "I think Meg's right, it would be good to go away for a few days." She didn't need to see him to know how he would react to the suggestion, which was why she hadn't told him of it before. She turned away from the mirror, finished tidying her dressing table. "I need to get changed and go upstairs," she told him.

"I'll say goodnight, then." He was silent but didn't leave, and Christine straightened, turned back to the mirror and tried to tell herself she wasn't hoping he would – hoping he might –

"I'll see you tomorrow for our lesson as usual," he said at last. "Sleep well, Christine."

"Sleep well, Erik," she whispered, and didn't move until long after he left.


	10. Chapter 10

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"This is going to be so much fun," gushed Meg, practically bouncing up and down in her seat. "It's been so long since we had a holiday."<p>

"Calm yourself," said Madame Giry, lifting one eyebrow ever so slightly. "Please try to act like the young lady you are, and not bounce about like a jack-in-the-box." They were the only ones in their carriage at present, but Madame Giry was still strict about their behaviour, and Meg exchanged an amused look with Christine.

"Yes, Maman," she said obediently, and she stilled, but her eyes danced with merriment as she turned back to her mother. "But Maman, aren't you looking forward to it?"

"I must admit I am," conceded Madame Giry. She glanced at Christine, tilted her head. "You're quiet, child," she said, and Christine nodded. "Are you tired? I know you've been working extremely hard for the past four weeks."

"I am, a little," Christine said. "But I'm sure the country air will do me good." She smiled, but Madame Giry scrutinised her, looked her over from head to foot and her mouth twisted.

"Hm, I dare say," she said. "Some time away is perhaps just what you need right now."

Christine was very aware of Meg's curious look; her friend had been silent on the subject since Christine had received her blue dress, but Christine knew Meg was aware that her lessons had continued, that Christine was still seeing the Opera Ghost. That her Angel was none other than the Phantom. It was unspoken between them – Christine had never admitted it in so many words, and Meg had hinted, had implied, but never directly said to Christine that she knew the Angel of Music was the Phantom.

"I will be glad of the time to think," Christine admitted. Madame Giry nodded, a sharp jerk of her head.

"Yes," she agreed. "And you must think carefully, Christine. You are playing a dangerous game."

Christine shook her head, glanced out of the window at the passing countryside. "But I'm not playing a game," she said, voice barely audible over the clatter of the train.

Meg reached out, took her hand. "Christine, will you tell me?" she asked gently. "Now we're not there – now he can't hear?"

Christine looked at Madame Giry, found no support for continued silence. Her foster-mother's gaze was fixed on nothing, her mouth a thin, tight line. She knew Madame Giry disapproved of her friendship with Erik, knew she thought him dangerous. Christine wondered if Madame Giry was hoping to persuade her against continuing to see him, now they were away from the opera house, away from his influence.

The thought of leaving him – of stopping their lessons, of cutting off their burgeoning relationship – was unbearable. Never to see the way his mouth twisted into a smile when she pleased him, never to feel his hand in hers as he led her through the passageways…she couldn't imagine how she would live.

"He wouldn't hurt me," she said, and took Meg's other hand, held them tight. "Please, Meg, you must believe me. I – I know him to be capable of many things, but never that."

Meg frowned, looking so like her mother for a moment. "He's hurt people before," she reminded Christine. "You _know_ that. It's only by chance that Carlotta wasn't hurt by that falling scenery." Christine nodded; she did know. And yet…

"Christine," said Madame Giry, commanding their attention, "what is it you feel for him?"

Christine's breath caught in her throat; she released Meg's hands, looked around at nothing and everything. "I don't know," she whispered. "I…even before I knew, before he came through the mirror, he was my friend. The voice – my teacher – he was as close a friend to me as you, Meg."

"Did you never think it might be the Ghost?" Meg asked. "You must have known _something_, Christine."

"I didn't," she said, leaning back in her seat. "I didn't want to know." Madame Giry gave a slow nod; she understood that, Christine knew, if nothing else. "But oh, Meg," Christine went on, "the music he makes! There aren't enough words to describe it. And he – he is so kind to me. I would never have dreamed so high without him."

Madame Giry exhaled sharply. "Christine, there is more to him than music," she said. "Much more. You are blinding yourself to it." She held up a hand to forestall Christine's protest. "No, child. I have stepped back for four weeks because I was afraid to stand between him and what he wanted. But you are as like a daughter to me as Meg, and I will not see you come to harm."

"He wouldn't hurt me," Christine insisted.

"As long as you do as he wishes," Madame Giry snapped. "Don't you see? As long as you play _his_ game, do as _he_ demands, you will be safe. The moment you do otherwise he will turn on you!"

The words hung in the air. Christine bit her lip, hard enough to taste blood, and Meg took her hand once more, squeezed it gently but said nothing to deny the words her mother had spoken.

Christine swallowed, licked dry lips. "The only thing he has ever demanded of me is that I sing, and sing to the best of my ability," she whispered. "He's never asked me for anything else."

Madame Giry sighed, shook her head. She looked for a moment older, looked more tired than Christine had ever seen her before. Madame Giry was usually so…so in command, so controlled.

"Christine, he asks you for more every time you see him," she said. "Can't you see that? He will start to think – to think you are more to each other. And he won't allow you to reject him." Christine said nothing, and Madame Giry stared at her, shook her head again. "But you care for him," she guessed. "I should have stopped this years ago!"

"Christine, do you care for him?" Meg asked, and Christine swallowed again, nodded. "Do you – do you love him?"

"I don't know," she said, curter than she intended, and Meg released her hand, pulled away from her a little. "Madame, I know you mean well," she said, looking across at her foster-mother. "But…I cannot imagine my life without him." The idea of it went against her every instinct, made her feel almost ill.

"I couldn't do it," she whispered. "I couldn't – I've already lost my father, I couldn't lose Erik too."

"His name is Erik?" Meg asked, leaning towards her again, eager now. Christine nodded, offered a shy smile, hoped Meg would try to share her happiness. "What – what is he like?" Meg asked then.

Christine glanced once more at Madame Giry, but the ballet mistress was looking almost determinedly out of the window, so she turned back to Meg, tried to find words to describe Erik.

"He's – he's very kind to me," she said, falteringly. "And…he never expects any kindness from me in return. I feel as though he's always waiting for me to say or do something to hurt him." Madame Giry made a noise, and both girls looked at her for a moment. But she said nothing, and Christine turned back to Meg. "We go down to his home for lessons now," she said. "He lives underneath the opera house – across the lake."

Meg made a face. "Isn't it terribly cold and dark?" she wanted to know. "I've seen the lake, it looks horrid."

"I suppose it is," said Christine, thoughtful now. "He lights many candles, and there's a fireplace. The house is – oh, it's so hard to explain. It's sort of built into the rock." Meg nodded but Christine knew she couldn't picture it. "He has an organ there, and the acoustics are wonderful," Christine went on.

"But what is he _like_?" Meg pressed her. "What does he look like?" Christine shrugged, dropped her gaze.

"He's tall," she said. "His eyes are different colours. He always wears formal wear, as if he were going to see the opera." She gave a small, tight smile, found no mirth in it. "The stories are right about _that_, anyway."

Meg bit her lip. She looked as though she wanted to ask something but wasn't sure she should, wasn't sure it was a good idea. Christine knew what it was, of course – they both knew the stories, the exaggerated descriptions of a man with no nose, with yellow, weathered skin, with coals for eyes and a mask covering half or all of his face, depending on who told the story.

"He wears a mask," she said abruptly. "A white mask, over the right side of his face." Meg met her eyes, tilted her head slightly and waited for Christine to continue.

But Christine couldn't. She wouldn't break his trust like that, wouldn't share his secrets with anyone without his permission – which he would never give, she knew. She had gleaned enough, through their conversations and his reactions, to know he had been treated badly, inhumanly, because of his face, his physical appearance. To expose him to others was a cruelty she could not allow herself to contemplate.

"But his face, Christine," Meg said at last, when the silence stretched too long. "Is his face – is it like they say it is? Have you seen it?"

"Yes," said Christine. "I've seen it."

Madame Giry exclaimed at that, rejoined the conversation with an incredulous look. "You've seen his face?" she demanded. "And even then he didn't hurt you?"

Christine couldn't speak of his physical rage, of the way he had nearly struck her. She knew Madame Giry would twist it, would use it against her, would try to persuade her that Erik was truly dangerous.

She shook her head. "He was angry, and he scared me, but he didn't hurt me," she answered.

"My God," muttered Madame Giry. "And you weren't appalled by it?"

Christine hesitated. She couldn't lie and say the sight hadn't been appalling, that she hadn't reacted with shock and a little horror. She hadn't seen his face again, the mask had never come off, and she couldn't say that she wouldn't recoil again, although she hoped she wouldn't.

"I was shocked," she admitted at last. "Of course I was. But…his temper scared me more."

"Christine, you _are_ in love with him," said Meg wonderingly. "You must be." Christine could feel herself flush, feel her cheeks heat. She couldn't deny it well enough for them to believe her, she knew.

"I don't know," she said once more. It was true – she didn't know, had never experienced love of this sort. "But I do know I must be sure," she said after a moment. "I can't hurt him. He's been hurt too much."

Madame Giry sighed, looked at her as if Christine had suddenly become something new, as if she'd changed. Perhaps she had, perhaps the events of the past four weeks had worked upon her in some way. Christine felt older, somehow, than she had been before, as if she had made the change from child to adult without realising it. She would be eighteen in just a few months, an adult in the eyes of the world, responsible for herself.

She thought, briefly, of the wedding gown in Erik's home. She hadn't seen it again since that night, but she knew it was there. She knew what it meant. At eighteen, she thought, she could marry without a guardian's consent.

But that was too much to think of now, and she thrust it away from her.

"Be sure," Madame Giry warned her. "You must be sure beyond any doubt, Christine, because there will be no going back with him. You cannot change your mind." She paused, and Christine nodded. "But if you are sure," Madame Giry went on then, quiet now, "I think…perhaps…you may do him good."

Christine nodded again, thought of how Erik had slowly grown more comfortable with her over the past few weeks, and knew she must decide soon.

* * *

><p>No chapter tomorrow night. I'm back off to London to see Les Mis (again) :)<p> 


	11. Chapter 11

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine hurried to her dressing room eagerly, released at last from the duties of unpacking and relating their two-day excursion to her friends in the corps de ballet. Nearly two hours had passed since they had returned to the opera house, and Christine wanted to see Erik, to talk to him.<p>

To tell him she had missed him, and perhaps more.

The backstage areas weren't busy; most people were taking advantage of the time off, so the only people around were the young dancers and the craftsmen, still busy preparing for the following night's opening of _Il Muto_. Christine slipped past them all, intent on her destination.

He was waiting for her, of course, and she couldn't help smiling when she saw him. She shut the door behind her, reached out for him, and he hesitated only a little before holding his arms out for her, letting her hug him close.

"I missed you," she said, pressed her face to his shoulder and revelled in the feel of his arms around her. He said nothing, but he turned his face into her curls, pulled her impossibly closer. And then he slid his hands to her shoulders, pushed her to arms' length and looked her over critically.

"You look less tired," he murmured. "I suppose that's something." She smiled wider – he had missed her too, she knew, but he wouldn't say it. It was enough that she knew. "Are you required elsewhere?" he wanted to know. "Or would you care to come downstairs with me?"

"I am not needed," she said. "And I would very much like that." His hands smoothed down her arms, as if he didn't want to cease touching her, and then he took her hand to lead her through the mirror.

Christine had been this way many times by now, and thought she could probably traverse it alone. Erik had warned her several times, however, of the traps that he disabled before bringing her down, and there was only one boat, so Christine would only be able to reach the near lake shore without assistance even if she managed to get past the traps safely.

She wasn't quite sure why she wanted to be able to come and go freely. Certainly she didn't want to intrude, to arrive unannounced and invade Erik's privacy. Still, she thought he might see it as what it was – a gesture of her desire to spend more time with him.

The house was warm when they arrived, the fire blazing in the hearth and candles lit everywhere. It felt cosy, felt like a home, and Christine settled into her usual chair and sighed contentedly.

"I'll fetch tea," Erik announced, and went through to the kitchen. Christine had been there, once or twice, but Erik always ushered her out again, refused to allow her to help him. She had wondered if he thought her incapable, when it had first happened, but dismissed the idea – he wanted to take care of her, wanted to do these things for her, rather than thinking her unable.

He returned with a tray, set it down on the table before the fire, sat down across from her, a little uncomfortable as he always was when they relaxed together like this.

"Pastries," Christine exclaimed, delighted. "Oh, Erik, my favourites." She smiled at him, and he inclined his head, a silent acknowledgement of her pleasure. "You did miss me," Christine dared then, leaned forwards to pour the tea. His china had improved since they had first shared tea, but she didn't think she particularly wanted to know how he ad acquired a matched set.

"Did you doubt I would?" he asked then, accepted his cup. His fingers brushed hers, almost by accident except she knew Erik's movements were so controlled, so careful, particularly around her.

"I hoped you would," she said, and he nodded, thoughtful, said nothing. Christine bit her lip, chose a pastry and leaned back in her chair. She was trying to decide whether she could ask him a question, whether she dared do so. She had spent much of the past two days thinking, working out what she was feeling, and she felt ready to speak to him – but she didn't quite know how. Whether she was right, and he cared for her the same way.

"You're very quiet," Erik observed. "Is something the matter?"

Christine shook her head at once, could sense the hidden trap in his words. He was so wary of being rejected, and she knew four weeks could scarcely begin to make up for a lifetime of ill treatment.

"I'm very glad to be here," she said. He looked at her, his visible eyebrow lowered in a frown. "I've been…thinking a great deal," she went on, slowly. "I would like to ask you a question, but…" She shrugged, bit her lip. "I promised myself I wouldn't ask questions," she admitted then. "That if you wanted me to know things about yourself, and your past, you would tell me when you were comfortable."

He was not comfortable now, that much was clear: his whole posture radiated tense anticipation, his face was as expressionless as the white mask that covered the left side.

"How very forbearing of you," he said sarcastically, and Christine flinched, knew at once that there was no way this could end well. "Well, what is it you want to know? Come, I'm an open book to you."

She shook her head, put her teacup down. She couldn't turn back now, knew he would press on until she asked her question. But the words stuck in her throat and she couldn't look at him, couldn't face that blankness, that anger.

But she had started this; she must finish.

"I was wondering why you had a wedding dress here," she whispered at last. Erik inhaled sharply – he hadn't been expecting that, and she glanced up at him, saw him rise and turn away from her. He stood by the fireplace, rested a hand on the mantelpiece. Christine shuddered, lowered her head. "I'm sorry," she offered.

"Ha," he muttered. "Sorry, for asking about that. Well, I know your curiosity – how you must have worked to keep it under control these past weeks! No, of all things to ask…" He turned back to her, almost glaring, and she shrank back in her seat, tried to be brave but his sarcasm was new, unexpected. "Why, Christine? Why does anyone possess a wedding dress? For a bride." He stepped towards her, leaned over her and Christine held her breath, stared up at him. "Does that shock you? That a creature such as I would dream of a bride?"

"N-no," she managed. But he shook his head, mouth twisted in a sneer.

"You're a better actress than that," he derided. "You knew why I have the gown. Why bother asking a question to which you already know the answer?"

Christine swallowed, shook her head. "You're scaring me, Erik," she whispered. And at once he pulled away from her, snarling, went to his organ and sat. He didn't play; his breath came in great heaves, and Christine slowly stood up, crossed the room and stood beside him.

"My apologies," he said after long, silent moments. "Like you, I made myself a promise. That I would not scare you again. But I'm afraid, my dear, that I have a temper." Christine nodded, said nothing. "You'll want to go now," he said, bitter, but he didn't move. His hands rested on the organ, his fingers still.

"I don't want to go," Christine said, and he looked up at her, incredulous. She looked straight at him, refused to glance away, let him see whatever was in her expression, and Erik stared, his eyes darting over her face. She licked her lips, nervous; his gaze went at once to her mouth, and she flushed under the intensity of it.

"Torture," he murmured. "Do you know how you torture me? Is this some new cruelty you've dreamed up to inflict upon the living corpse?"

Christine inhaled sharply. "Who called you that?" she asked at once, ignoring her self-imposed promise to curb her curiosity. "How could they?" She reached out, stopped short of touching him, knew he wouldn't welcome it. "I'm not trying to be cruel," she said, and he shook his head, his bloated lip twisting downwards in a scowl, but said nothing. Christine hesitated just for a moment, and then she took his hand, lifted it from the organ and entwined their fingers.

"I asked," she said, "because I was afraid of the answer." He tried to pull away from her, but she held fast, finding strength she hadn't possessed before. "Because I was afraid I was wrong."

"Wrong," he echoed, dully. "What are you talking about?"

"I wanted you to be real," Christine told him. "I was happy to have you as an angel, but to have you as Erik…" She squeezed his hand gently, hoped he could understand what she was trying to say.

But Erik shook his head, tugged his hand from hers. "Speak plainly," he snapped. "Or desist speaking."

"I know the dress is for me," she said. "And…and it doesn't shock me."

Silence reigned; Christine clasped her hands together, lowered her head, waited for his reaction, whatever it might be. He would not believe her, she knew. It would take weeks, months even, for him to trust her. To trust that she did care for him.

That she loved him.

He rose abruptly from the organ, and she stayed still, trembled a little as he stalked around her, as if she were his prey. His hands drifted across her shoulder, down her back, parted her hair so he could trail cool fingers across her neck. She shivered, closed her eyes, couldn't pretend even to herself that she didn't want more.

"You can barely stand to be touched by me," he muttered. "You're disgusted by it. And you expect me to believe you would welcome my attention?" He drew away from her and Christine turned, reached out for him, clutched at his sleeve.

"No," she said. "You're wrong. It's not disgust I feel."

They stared at each other, and Christine wouldn't look away, wouldn't be ashamed. Her skin was tingling where he had touched her, and for the first time she truly understood what the other girls had talked of, when they spoke of their lovers.

She loved him; she desired him. Couldn't bear to be without him. She could only hope he felt the same.

"Christine," he whispered. "Be sure."

It was a warning, she knew, and she slowly stepped closer to him, rested her hands on his shoulders and felt his settle at her waist. She lifted her face to his, stretched up, pressed a gentle kiss to his mouth. The mask was cold, jarring when compared to his warm flesh, but she made no move to take it off, couldn't do that to him.

He didn't respond, didn't move – she thought perhaps he didn't dare. She drew back, looked up at him again and waited. The look on his face was almost heartbreaking; had he ever, she asked herself, known love? Known kindness?

"Erik," she murmured, "don't you see? It's you. It's only you."

And he shook his head but brought her close to him again, pressed her to him, and slowly – so agonisingly slowly – lowered his head to kiss her. Sweetly, chastely, but she closed her eyes, felt his hands heavy on her waist and knew this was the right choice.


	12. Chapter 12

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me. Some dialogue in this chapter is taken directly from the original stage show.

* * *

><p>"The Vicomte is in box five!" Meg whispered to Christine as they waited in the wings for the final adjustments to the scenery for the first scene. "They've sold every seat even though it <em>is<em> Carlotta. Christine, box five!"

Christine winced, glanced around to make sure nobody was paying attention to them. "I heard," she admitted. It was perhaps the least of her worries tonight. It was only yesterday that she had kissed Erik, a move so life-altering she wasn't sure how she'd found the courage to do it. Only yesterday, and when at last they had parted, when he had taken her back to her dressing room, she'd tried to ask if he had plans for Carlotta, but he had evaded her questioning easily.

He was planning something – she was certain of it – and whatever it was, it would surely now happen on the stage before the entire audience. She was certain he planned to embarrass Carlotta, to pay her back for the scorn and ridicule she had heaped on Christine during rehearsals.

Box five would simply be the last nail in the coffin, she suspected.

"Be as normal," she said to Meg then. "I'm sure something will happen during the performance, but we must…we must continue." She smiled, weakly. "Our teachers would expect no less." Meg nodded, knew Christine referred to Madame Giry as well as Erik.

"Alright," she said. "But be careful, Christine." She pressed a kiss to Christine's cheek and then scurried forward to her starting position. Meg had gained an individual role in this opera, elevated from leader of a line in the ballet corps, and Christine was so pleased for her, hoped Erik's pranks and maliciousness wouldn't affect Meg's future.

But Erik knew how much Meg meant to her; that, she hoped, would be enough to keep her safe.

"Christine?" Madame Giry appeared beside her, and Christine looked up, found her guardian pale. "Take your place," she instructed. "We begin soon." And she patted Christine's shoulder, lips pinched tight – as if she too suspected some disaster would occur tonight.

"Yes, Madame," said Christine, and she hurried onstage, took her place among the others and tried to calm her nerves. She would not give less than her best – Erik would expect nothing less than perfection, even in a role with no singing – and she would not give Carlotta any leverage over her by a mediocre performance.

The orchestra began to play; a moment later the curtain rose, and Christine pushed aside all thoughts of Erik, of disasters, and focused on being the page boy.

It didn't take long though – the opera had scarcely begun when Erik's voice came from somewhere above them, came booming out, echoing across the whole auditorium.

"Did I not instruct that box five was to be kept empty?"

Christine started, looked up at the chandelier, at the roof of the auditorium, as if she could see him somewhere.

"He's here!" Meg hissed from stage right. "The Phantom of the Opera!" Christine glanced across at her, nodded once and looked upwards once more. Of course he was here, of course he was angry about box five. Christine couldn't recall a time when it had been sold – always it had been empty for his use.

"He's here," she murmured, and Carlotta turned to her, scowled.

"Your part is silent," she snapped. "Little toad!" Christine bit back a retort, would not sink to Carlotta's level – on stage in front of an audience, no less.

But Erik had heard; of course he had heard, but he must be closer than the ceiling, Christine realised at once.

"A toad, Madam?" he goaded. "Perhaps it is you who are the toad."

Carlotta was shaken, but she gestured to the conductor to begin the bar again. Christine fumbled a little – the line called for her to remove the outer costume, Serafimo's disguise – but a moment later it didn't matter.

Carlotta croaked.

There was simply no other word to describe it, and Christine's horror was reflected by the other actors onstage and by Carlotta herself. Her hand went to her throat, her eyes were wide, and Carlotta tried again, her voice trembling and weak with nerves – and she croaked again.

"Behold!" cried Erik, his voice amplified once more. "She's singing to bring down the chandelier!"

And then the chandelier, the chandelier which was regularly checked for safety, began to swing, just enough to scare. Christine stared up at it – Carlotta fled the stage – and abruptly the curtain closed, sealing them off from the audience.

Meg darted across the stage at once, clung to her arm and almost shook her. "He wouldn't – he couldn't really bring the chandelier down?" she gasped, and she was pale, paler than Christine had ever seen her. Christine couldn't speak; she shook her head, sure he wouldn't – sure he _could_.

And then an arm came through the curtain, and Monsieur André grabbed her, pulled her through and presented her to the audience.

"The role of the countess will be sung by Miss Daaé," he announced, and Christine bit her tongue, knew this was what Erik had been planning. At least she was prepared for it, she told herself, at least he hadn't hurt Carlotta – although she didn't know, of course, whether the croaking meant he had damaged Carlotta's voice irreparably, somehow.

"In the meantime, ladies and gentlemen," André continued, and he released her, let her slip back behind the curtain, "we shall be giving you the ballet from act three of tonight's opera."

"Come, Christine, you must change," said Madame Giry, and she grasped Christine's forearm, pulled her from the stage and through the wings, through the crowd of people who had gathered when word had spread of the Ghost's interference. "The ballet only lasts fifteen minutes, you must be quick," she said.

"I – I can change very quickly," said Christine, and she followed Madame Giry up to her dressing room. The costumiers had prepared all the countess's costumes for her, on Monsieur Reyer's instruction, and she was used to quick changes. "Madame – surely he wouldn't?"

Madame Giry shook her head grimly. "I warned you he was dangerous," she reminded Christine. "But he has what he wants, now." Christine nodded, shut the dressing room door, began to strip as Madame Giry went to pick up the first costume. She changed quickly, stripped her trousers off as Madame Giry pulled her hair loose, ran a brush through the curls.

"My God, the wig," Christine realised. "It's not here – it must be down in the wings!"

"Then you'll simply have to put it on there," said Madame Giry. She checked the fastenings on Christine's skirt, made sure the bodice was laced tight. "Where's your wrap?"

"Here," said Christine, caught it up and put it around her shoulders.

"Hurry, then," Madame Giry said, and led her from the dressing room, back down to the stage through the frenzy of activity and then left Christine in the wings with Meg, went to find the missing wig.

"Christine, something's happening," whispered Meg urgently. "Look at them – they're terrified!"

Christine looked, and nodded slowly. The dancers were out of synch, they kept glancing at the backdrop – no, she realised, at the shadows that appeared against the backdrop and then disappeared, only to return a moment later. A cloaked man, somewhere up in the flies, taunting dancers and audience alike.

"But what he is doing?" she murmured, more to herself than to Meg.

And then, from the flies above the stage, something dropped down, dangled at the end of a rope and the dancers screamed.

Joseph Buquet, quite dead, danced like a grotesque puppet. The ballerinas scrambled off the stage – stagehands moved in, tried to reach Buquet down, and Christine covered her mouth with a hand, felt sick.

"Oh God," Meg whispered. "Oh God, he's killed Buquet!"

"Christine! Christine, are you alright?"

Her head was spinning; she couldn't think why Raoul was here, why he'd come down to the stage. He grabbed her shoulders, shook her a little.

"Christine, come with me," he said. "We'll go somewhere safe while this is…while they…"

"No," she said, and tore herself away from him. No, she could not go to safety, could not cower in the shadows with Raoul. She felt sick, had to swallow against it, but there was only one place she could go now.

She had to find him, had to ask him, because Buquet – Buquet was _dead_, and if Erik had done it – God, she thought, if he killed Buquet, could she love him? How could she move past that?

"Christine, please," Raoul said, entreating her. "Please, you can't stay here."

"Please leave me alone," she muttered, and she turned, forced her way through the crowds, away from the stage, went up the passageways and staircases to the deserted dressing rooms. She almost stumbled along the corridor, and her hand shook as she opened her door.

But he wasn't there, the room was empty, and the passage behind the mirror was empty too, she knew that without needing to look. She collapsed on the stool before the dressing table, put her head in her hands and tried to breathe, tried to keep from being sick.

It could have been an accident, she told herself. Such things had been known, although since her arrival at the opera house, eight years before, there had been no deaths. And Buquet was often drunk, she knew that – drunk and lecherous, he leered after the dancers and they all knew better than to allow themselves to be caught in a dark corner with him.

It could have been an accident, but she was sure it wasn't. She was sure Erik – the Phantom – had killed him.

There was a glass of water on the dressing table, and she lifted it to her mouth, sipped slowly, took deep breaths. She needed to calm down, she knew. If the performance went on, if the managers smoothed it over somehow, she would need to be poised, controlled. Would need to show everyone that she could perform this role just as well as she had Elissa.

She closed her eyes, but images of Buquet assaulted her; images of what must have happened, up there on the flies, a struggle perhaps – or perhaps, she thought wildly, perhaps it really had been an accident. And after all who could prove otherwise? The Ghost didn't officially exist, despite the salary he extorted from the managers, despite the rumours and gossip and speculation among the employees of the opera house.

A noise made her jump, startled her so much her heart started pounding, blood roaring in her ears. She turned automatically to the mirror, but the sound had come from the corridor outside, and in a moment Madame Giry came in, her mouth pinched, her eyes tired.

"They will continue," she said tersely. "Are you able?"

Christine finished the water in a gulp, wiped her mouth indecorously with the back of her hand.

"Yes, Madame," she said. "I – I can do it."


	13. Chapter 13

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>After the performance, after she had been stripped of the countess' elaborate costume, Christine banished her dresser from the dressing room. She sent Meg away with a request to delay Raoul, and she locked the door, left the key in the lock and pressed her hands against the wooden door.<p>

She breathed. Her head ached from the wig, from the pins that had held her hair in place beneath it. It had been the hardest performance of her life, to sing and act upon the stage when only minutes before Buquet had been hanging above it, and she knew the audience had struggled to engage. Some of them had left before the opera restarted – some left during the interval.

So hard, and now she knew he would be here, now she had to ask him, had to find out the truth.

She had to know.

She pushed away from the door, turned around, faced the mirror. The glass was transparent; she could see him behind it, standing at the mouth of the hidden passage. He was silent, watched her, waited for her to speak.

"Did you kill him?" she asked, and regretted her forthrightness almost immediately. Surely he wouldn't answer, surely he would deny it.

But Erik reached up, pressed the catch that opened the mirror, let it swing open. He didn't step into the room but there was no barrier between them now, and his eyes were fixed upon her.

"Yes," he said, softly. Christine gasped, covered her mouth with her hand and shook her head as if she could make it a lie by refusing to accept it as truth. "Yes," he repeated, harsh now. "I killed him."

Christine moaned, turned away from him, and in a moment he was through the mirror, in a moment he grasped her shoulders and forced her to look at him.

"Yes, cringe and cower," he hissed. "I am everything they say, Christine, and you knew it when you made your choice!" She shook her head, couldn't speak, felt his fingers tighten painfully. "Yes!" he insisted. "Don't think I don't know how Madame Giry's been warning you off – and she's right! I'm a dangerous, murderous monster."

"No," Christine moaned, shaking her head. "No, you're not – please, you're hurting me!"

He released her at once, staggered back. The straps of her chemise had fallen from her shoulders when he grabbed her, and she pushed them back into place, acutely aware of how little she was wearing. Not enough to be decent, not enough for propriety.

But then he cared little for decency, and she hadn't cared either, before now.

"Why did you do it?" she had to know, hated how plaintively her voice came out, how timid. He shook his head, lip curled in a sneer, and she hugged herself, stared at him, her thoughts racing.

A dangerous, murderous monster, he had called himself. He had gripped her so tightly she was sure she would have bruises tomorrow. Dangerous.

She closed her eyes, pressed her lips together to keep from speaking, from saying something foolish. Yes, Madame Giry had warned her off, and Christine hadn't listened. But Erik was dangerous, she couldn't deny it. Couldn't possibly even try, not now.

And if he'd had a reason, if he shared his motive with her, would that make it any better? Whatever crimes Buquet had committed, it could not justify cold-blooded murder – and it had been cold-blooded, could not have been anything else, not with the way he had taunted the dancers with his shadow across the spotlights as they performed after Carlotta's abrupt exit.

The worst of it, she realised suddenly, was not the murder itself, not Erik's blunt acceptance of guilt, but the way she felt. For she could not love him less despite his sin, knew that even now she could not acknowledge a future without him.

She was a good Christian, she believed in God and knew the ten commandments. Erik had broken one, had sinned against God and against his own soul, but it did not diminish her love for him.

"I warned you to be sure," Erik said at last, and she nodded, silent still. He had warned her, and she had been sure. "You made your choice." He stepped towards her, towered over her, and she trembled, not afraid but overwhelmed by him, by his physical power. He could turn it on her so easily, and she'd known that all along.

But he'd released her the moment she'd said he was hurting her, she remembered. He had no wish to hurt her. That, at least, was still true, was still a defence against Meg and Madame Giry, because she was sure she would face their inquisition when she went upstairs for the night.

"I made my choice," she whispered, and she reached out to him, lifted a hand to clutch at his sleeve. "But – but Erik, you _killed_ him."

"I've killed others," he said, the words almost careless except she knew they couldn't be, knew they were calculated to make her see just what she had chosen. Christine closed her eyes, felt she couldn't stand much longer, her strength failing under his relentless admission of sin. "Look at me!" he demanded. "Look at what you _chose_, Christine!" When Christine opened her eyes again, it was to find he had removed his mask. His face was bare to her.

She flinched, and his lip curled in a sneer, as if he'd expected it. But Christine didn't look away, didn't allow herself that weakness. She looked at him now as she hadn't been able to that other time, let her gaze linger. His cheek was hollowed, distorted, the skin so thin she could almost see the muscle beneath. And higher, on his forehead – beneath what must be a wig, it was as if the skin hadn't grown, bare tissue and bone exposed. There _was_ skin, she realised, but thin, so thin, barely a protective layer over the deformity. His bloated upper lip, twisted upwards.

It was scarcely a face, it was some mistake of nature.

And yet…

Christine lifted her hand slowly, so slowly, touched his cheek with trembling fingers.

"Does it hurt?" she whispered. Erik inhaled sharply, but she couldn't tell whether it was at her question or her touch. Her fingers moved, slid down his cheek, touched his mouth, and she raised her other hand, held his face gently. "I told you before," she said, "it isn't your face that scares me." She lifted herself up on tiptoe, kissed him, and his arms came around her once more, clutched her to him. His mouth was hard and hot, and Christine felt as though she were drowning, or flying, or spinning into a hundred different pieces.

He had killed, his face was hideous, and yet she loved him.

A knock at the door separated them, although Erik didn't release her, kept her close to him.

"Christine? Christine, are you there?"

"It's Raoul," Christine whispered, eyes wide. "I asked Meg to keep him away, but…" She shrugged helplessly, looked up at Erik and thought of his jealousy, thought of Buquet. "Erik, I don't want to see him," she insisted. "And he mustn't see you!"

"Christine! Please, I need to make sure you're safe!"

Erik replaced his mask, white leather covering the distorted features below, and he took Christine's hand.

"He will not have you," he said tersely, and Christine could read other meanings in his words but barely had a moment to think of those meanings; he pulled her to the mirror, whisked her through and closed the doorway behind them. Christine could hear Raoul calling for her, beating at the dressing room door, but the sounds grew fainter as Erik took her away.

She shivered when they reached the lake. It had turned cold in the last few days, and beneath the opera house by the lake it was colder still. Christine was hardly dressed for it – she wore only her undergarments, chemise and pantalettes, her corset. Her slippers were thin, and the ground was damp.

"Erik," she whispered, and he turned to her, frowned and muttered something, took off his cloak and wrapped it around her. She clutched it gratefully, the thick wool falling in folds around her, but she shook her head. "Erik, I should go back," she said. "The girls will be waiting – I'm not even _dressed_, Erik."

"Go back, if you think you can find your way," said Erik, challenging her. Christine stared at him, bit her lip and glanced behind at the tunnel, the rough staircase that led up. He could navigate the dark with ease, seemed to see as well in the dark as the light, but she would struggle, she knew that.

"You're not giving me a choice," she muttered, turning back to him, and he nodded, admitted it, held his hand out to help her into the boat. He was silent while he punted the boat across the lake, and Christine huddled in his cloak, kept her gaze down until they reached the far shore, the house across the lake.

"Sit by the fire," he directed her, pausing to moor the boat, and she nodded, went inside. The fire was a glow of embers and she eschewed her chair, knelt by the fireplace and took off her sodden slippers. She reached out to put a log on the fire, but her fingers were too stiff and she sat back, stretched out her hands to the embers and tried to coax warmth back into them.

Then Erik came, reached past her to stoke up the fire, stood above her and looked down at her. She looked back, acutely aware of the way his gaze lingered on her bared skin, looked at him and wondered what would happen now.

He sighed, shook his head, reached out to help her up. "Come with me," he said, and when she hesitated, he sighed again. "I will not hurt you," he said.

"Alright," she whispered, took his hand and rose, almost stumbled against him. He steadied her, brushed his hand against her hair, and then took her to the door at the other end of the music room, the door she had never been through. It led onto a passageway, and Erik took her along it, ignored the first two doors but flung open the third.

It was a bedroom, Christine saw at once, but not his. It was feminine, pretty, the furniture light and appealing. The walls were smooth and papered. A door was set into one wall – leading, Christine assumed, to a bathroom of some sort. The bed was neatly made, and there were flowers on the dressing table.

It was for her, of course. There was no doubt about it, and when she glanced at Erik she found him watching her, waiting for her reaction.

"It's beautiful," she said quietly. "Thank you." There was little else she could say; he had created this room for her, and she knew why, knew his hopes – his desires.

"There are clothes in the wardrobe," he said, gestured to the wardrobe in the corner of the room. "You should change. The bathroom is through that door. I'll fetch you a hot drink. You must be freezing."

He turned to leave but she reached out, caught at his sleeve and he stopped, looked just to one side of her as if afraid to meet her gaze. Christine faltered, hesitated, released him and wished she could find some way to explain how she felt.

"We can speak in the morning," he said, still not quite looking at her. "Rest now, Christine. You will be safe here, I promise."

"I know I'm safe with you, Erik," Christine told him, and she pulled off his cloak, offered it back to him. "I know you'd never hurt me. But – but you killed a man and you don't even –" She cut herself off, pressed her lips together and shook her head. Erik sighed, took the cloak and stepped through the doorway.

"Tomorrow," he said. "But rest now, Christine. It has been a long evening."

Christine choked back a sob, closed the door behind him and went to find a nightgown in the wardrobe.


	14. Chapter 14

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine slept well in the bed, far larger and more comfortable than her little bed in the ballet dormitory. When she awoke she stared at the ceiling for a few moments, trying to remember where she was; then she sat up, glanced around at the bedroom he had created for her, remembered the events of the previous night.<p>

Remembered Carlotta, remembered Buquet. Remembered Erik pulling off his mask, holding her tight, proclaiming himself to be a monster.

She slipped from the bed, fumbled the few steps to the dressing table and lit the lamp there, gazed at herself in the small mirror, as if she expected to see some change. But her face was as it had always been, no outward sign marked the turmoil within her.

There were brushes on the table, and a comb, and she sat down, brushed her hair, tied it back with the blue ribbon she found in one of the drawers. It matched the blue dress Erik had given her, but the dress was upstairs, in her dormitory room.

She wondered what the girls had thought when she didn't appear for the night, if Giselle had made insinuations. If Meg had gone to Madame Giry, if they had worried about her. Of course they had, she told herself. They knew Buquet's death was no accident, they must be terrified that the Ghost had done something to her, too.

She heard a violin then, a mournful tune only just audible through the rock walls of the house, and Christine rose, went to the door and paused with her hand on the doorknob. It was Erik, of course, and her instinct was to go to him, to try to comfort him, but she was only wearing a nightgown, would feel too self-conscious to find him without more clothing.

The wardrobe, although not full, offered Christine a selection to choose from, and she found a plain skirt, a white blouse, laid them out on the bed. The hem of her chemise had been quite wet when she had taken it off last night, but it was dry now, and she donned it quickly, laced her corset and put on the clothes Erik had left for her.

She checked her appearance in the mirror one more time; she was pale, but neat and presentable.

Christine opened the bedroom door, walked with quiet steps down the hallway to the door at the end, pushed it open and stepped into the music room.

He was facing away from her, stopped playing as soon as she entered the room but didn't turn to face her. He lowered the violin, laid it down carefully on the table before him.

"Good morning," he said. "Did you sleep well?"

Hesitant, unsure how to react to him in this setting, Christine took a few steps towards him.

"Yes, thank you," she murmured. "Very well." He turned then, faced her, and it was evident he hadn't slept at all. She wondered, just for a moment, if guilt had kept him awake. But she dismissed the idea; he'd shown no hint of it last night.

"Do you still want to know why?" he asked abruptly, and it took Christine a moment to respond, to force herself to nod. "You know Buquet's reputation." She nodded again. "It isn't common knowledge yet," Erik went on, "but Simone Bonnet is with child."

Simone was one of the dancers, the leader of a row – she was widely agreed to have tremendous talent, and although she wasn't a particular friend of Christine's, they got on well enough. She was sweet, if a little freer than Madame Giry liked, but the idea of Simone with Buquet was repugnant. Christine couldn't see how it were possible, and she shook her head, began to speak.

But Erik held up his hand and she silenced herself.

"She was not willing," he said, and he was gentle now, leading her to the inevitable conclusion.

Christine closed her eyes, measured her breathing, counted to ten. Buquet had forced himself on Simone, and now Simone would have to leave the corps de ballet, leave the opera house – unless she found some way to destroy the child, and Christine knew such things had happened.

"There have been others, too," Erik added. "There is a reason Madame Giry warns you all to be on guard."

She nodded, opened her eyes to look at him again. It was a reason, and although she could not admit that it was a crime worthy of murder…still, it was a reason.

"Thank you for telling me," she said, and Erik inclined his head.

"They'll say it was an accident," he said. "Buquet's usually drunk, he easily could have slipped."

"But he didn't," she whispered. "You killed him." She lifted a hand to her head, thought of her father and what he would say of her now, felt faint.

"Sit down," Erik said, and he came to her, directed her with a hand on her arm to her accustomed seat by the fireplace. "You need breakfast," he decided. "I'll return in a moment."

"Erik, wait," she said, and her hand fell short of touching him. "Please, I don't – I don't want to be alone," she said. "I need to…try to understand. Please." He stood above her, looked down, and the white mask seemed bright in the candlelight of his home. "You said you'd killed others," she said at last.

"Yes," he admitted. "Many years ago. In Persia." She watched him, waited for some explanation that she was sure he wouldn't give, and he looked away from her, his jaw clenched. "I was a paid murderer, then," he murmured. "I would never have told you that, except…you know me, now. You know what I am."

Christine bit her lip, nodded. She knew him, knew what he was capable of, and she knew she must find some way to reconcile this new facet of the man with the angel she had loved, the man she had come to love.

"I consider myself a good Christian," she said, the words tumbling from her mouth. "I believe in God, Erik, and the words of the Bible."

He nodded, stepped away from her, his fingers clenching and unclenching several times. "Yes," he said. "You will tell me now that you could never care for such a godforsaken creature as I. A murderer."

"I'm trying to tell you that I love you," she burst out, and he almost flinched, almost ducked away as though her words were blows. "Despite your past, whatever it might have been. And – and God help me, I love you despite last night!"

Erik was silent; he stared at her wildly, and Christine kept her gaze on him, refused to look away.

"I cannot imagine my future without you," she said. "But you must give me time, Erik."

He stepped close, dropped to his knees before her, took her hands and pressed kisses to her palms, her fingers, her knuckles. It was a supplication, a plea for forgiveness. Christine could not give that to him, but knew he would not seek forgiveness in a church. He had sins, and they were part of him.

"Will you promise me something?" she asked then, tentative. "You promised before, that you wouldn't hurt Carlotta." He nodded, still at her knees. "Will you promise me something else now?"

Erik's lip curled a little beneath the mask. "You would have me promise not to kill," he guessed, and Christine nodded, said nothing in reply, nothing to persuade him to agree. "And if I make such a promise, what will you do for me in return?"

"What would you have me do?" she asked cautiously. He looked up at her, his beautiful mismatched eyes wide as he looked at her.

"I would have you wear my ring," he murmured. "Yes…yes, I would like that. An engagement. For you to belong to me." He clutched at her hands. "Yes, if you do that, I will make the promise. I would do anything." His voice turned soft, seductive. "And I would make sure you never wanted for anything, Christine. Anything you wanted – dresses, finery, you would only have to ask. And you would be loved, Christine – so loved!"

Christine's thoughts swirled. A ring, an engagement, to proclaim to everyone that she had a fiancé, a suitor. To belong to him, as surely as he would belong to her.

The fiancée of the Opera Ghost. His wife, eventually. It was an odd proposal, certainly nothing like she'd ever imagined, but it would be more than just a means to keep him to his word. It would mean so much more.

"Give me the ring, then," she said at last, and smiled at him. Erik stared for a moment, his mouth moving soundlessly, and then he lifted his right hand, pulled a ring from his little finger and held it out to her. She presented her hand, and he slipped it slowly, carefully onto her finger.

The weight of it was odd; she looked at it, the candlelight glinting off the small diamond, and looked at Erik, kneeling before her still, gazing at her with awe.

She couldn't help laughing then, and reached out to catch at his shoulder before he could retreat in dismay.

"I'm sorry," she said, tried to stop laughing but couldn't contain her joy. "I'm happy, Erik." Perhaps she shouldn't be, perhaps she should be thinking of Erik's sin, of Buquet's death, of her future complicity if she were asked questions. But Erik looked at her with such happiness, such love, and she couldn't think of those other things now.

Her smile faded as the clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour. It was eight; she had slept too long, would be missed upstairs.

"I should return," she said, and Erik nodded, clearly reluctant. "They'll have missed me," she went on. "The girls, and Madame Giry. I – I suppose I could say I fell asleep in my dressing room." A thought occurred to her and she looked up at him. "Will Carlotta be alright?" she asked. "What you did – it isn't permanent, is it?"

He smirked at her then, held out a hand to help her stand. "Unfortunately not," he replied. "If I had my way she would never torture another audience, but her voice will recover in a few days. Longer if she doesn't keep quiet."

Christine smiled, rose and stood just a little too close to him. "Perhaps a week, then?" she suggested cheekily, and was rewarded when his smirk turned into a smile, softening the lines of his face, warming even the cold white of the mask. She looked at him, almost awed by the transformation, and he leaned towards her, lowered his head as if he meant to kiss her.

But then he pulled away, glanced at the clock once more.

"You should eat before you return," he said. "You've had nothing since supper last night."

"I _am_ hungry," Christine admitted. "If you're sure I wouldn't be a bother."

Erik shook his head, caught her hand and lifted it to look at the ring on her finger.

"You could never be that," he said softly. "Not you, Christine." His gaze was admiring, and something more – something darker. There was lust there, she realised, and it almost made her shiver. He could devour her, she thought, and felt dizzy for a moment. He could devour her if she let him.

Then he turned away, went to the kitchen, and she breathed deeply before joining him.


	15. Chapter 15

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"Christine! Where in the world have you been?" Meg almost pounced on her, grasped her arm and looked up at her with wide eyes and a pale face. "You didn't come back last night. The Vicomte's been looking for you, and the managers – they want you in their office, the police are here, they're asking everyone questions."<p>

"I – I fell asleep in my dressing room," Christine said hesitantly. Meg didn't believe her, of course, stared at her in disbelief.

"Why are you lying to me?" she demanded. "Did _he_ ask you to?"

Christine glanced around, drew Meg into a side corridor. It wasn't busy – past breakfast, too early for lunch and no rehearsals today – but she didn't want to take the chance of being overheard.

"He didn't ask me to lie," she said, voice low. "But I won't broadcast the truth."

Meg shook her head, bewildered. "Christine – your clothes. I've never seen them before. Did - are you – did he give them to you? Did you stay with him last night?" Christine nodded once, and Meg lifted a hand to her forehead, closed her eyes. "Christine," she whispered. "Are you – have you –"

"Nothing happened," Christine hurried to reassure her. "He – there's a bedroom for me, in his home. I slept there, and he…I don't think he slept."

Meg opened her eyes again, looked at her solemnly. "But after last night?" she asked. "You stayed with him after what he did?" Christine glanced away, unable to justify herself. "Christine, Maman is right – he's _dangerous_!" She clutched at Christine's hand, waited for Christine to look at her again. "He killed Buquet," she whispered.

"You don't have any proof of that," said Christine, and they stared at each other for a long moment. Meg looked close to tears, but Christine found she couldn't speak, couldn't defend Erik any further than that. She couldn't deny what Erik had done, but neither could she admit his guilt, condemn him before others.

"You're right," Meg said at last. "There's no proof. And Maman – Maman told them he's often drunk, and of course none of us…who would believe us if we talked of the Ghost?"

"Nobody would," Christine whispered, and she was grateful for it, grateful that theatre people were known for being superstitious.

"Christine, please," Meg said, reached out for her again, touched her arm. "Please, this is serious. I'm not asking you to admit it, but we both know the truth. Won't you see that he's dangerous?"

Someone passed by, gave them a curious look, and they had to press themselves against the wall to allow the stagehand through.

"I know he's dangerous," Christine said when they were alone once more. "But I can't turn against him, Meg. I won't." She didn't give Meg time to argue with her, offered a tight smile. "I should go to the managers' office," she said. "You said they were looking for me."

Meg nodded, dropped her hand from Christine's arm. "Yes," she said. "I – I'll tell Maman you're back. I should go to practice." She looked at Christine for a moment more, and Christine couldn't meet her eyes. "I'll see you at lunch," Meg added then, and hurried away.

Christine leaned against the wall for a moment, twisting the ring on her finger, fortifying herself against the meeting. Then she too hurried, through the opera house to the richly-decorated corridors and landings of the front of house, to the managers' office and whatever awaited her there. She had never been there before, had never needed to, and when she reached the door she hesitated for a moment before knocking.

The door swung open to reveal Raoul, and he stared at her, stared as if she were wholly unexpected.

"I was told I was wanted," Christine said, looking up at him. "Meg said – she said the police wanted to speak to me?"

"My God, Christine," he exclaimed. "Where have you been? I went to your dressing room last night, I heard – I don't know what I heard."

Christine tried to smile, but her stomach was twisting in knots and her mouth was dry. "I fell asleep," she said. "What happened – it was so shocking, I put my head down for just a few minutes and didn't wake."

"Let the girl in, for heaven's sake," said someone from inside, and Raoul stared at her for a moment more before standing aside to admit her into the room. She glanced around covertly, saw framed posters from previous productions, heavy drapes at the windows, a desk covered with newspapers.

The two managers were standing by desk, both staring at her, and another man sat by the window. It was he who had spoken – he was, she realised, a policeman of some kind.

Christine clasped her hands together, stood straight as Madame Giry had taught her, looked him in the eye. She could lie, she told herself. She was an actress, and she was a good one, and she would _not_ reveal any of Erik's secrets.

"Good morning, Messieurs," she said politely. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes," said the stranger. "My name is Fournier, I'm a police officer. I'm investigating what happened last night." He rose, offered her a hand to shake, but his eyes didn't leave her face; she felt as though he were trying to see right through her. "Monsieur le Vicomte was particularly upset that you weren't to be found last night," he went on. "I think he half-thought you might have been abducted!" It was a joke, clearly meant to put her at ease, but Christine couldn't smile.

"As you see, I'm quite well and safe," she said. Fournier nodded slowly, still watching her. "How can I help, Monsieur?" she asked then.

Fournier smiled disarmingly, gestured for her to sit. "It's just routine," he assured her. "I have statements from others, but I understand you were in the wings at the time?"

"Yes," she nodded, took a seat and glanced at Raoul, at the managers. "I – I was waiting to perform. It was all so hurried, Signora Giudicelli…well, she felt unable to continue." It was a delicate way of phrasing it, and Firmin snorted, folded his arms and turned away from proceedings. "The dancers were onstage," Christine went on. "And then Buquet – he must have slipped, and caught himself on a rope. It was horrible, Monsieur."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure," Fournier nodded. He was looking at her less keenly now, as if she had merely confirmed what others had said, and she almost held her breath, almost hoped that she could go.

"But didn't you see the shadow on the stage?" Raoul asked then, and Christine turned to him, eyes wide.

"Shadow?" she repeated. "What shadow?" Raoul frowned, shook his head impatiently.

"There was a man," he said, "wearing a cloak. He must have been somewhere up in the – what do you call it?"

"The flies," she supplied. "Or perhaps the catwalks? But no, I saw nothing like that. There would have been several men up there, they needed to change the scenery."

Raoul shook his head again. "I know what I saw," he said, insistent, and Christine rather suspected he'd said the same thing several times already this morning.

"Well, what could it have been?" Firmin demanded, lifting his hands and shrugging. "The girl is quite right, there would have been many people around at the time. Any one of them could have cast a shadow. And everyone's quite clear on the point, Buquet was almost certainly drunk. I can't imagine how he kept his job so long."

"Yes, it all seems quite clear," said Fournier, and he turned away from Christine, turned to Raoul. "You seem to have become infected with some theatrical superstition," he said, chuckling. "Certainly Mademoiselle Daaé hasn't been whisked away by any spectre."

"No," Raoul had to admit, and he looked at Christine once more, came to kneel beside her, took her hand. "But Christine, I heard voices in your dressing room," he said, gentle. "And surely you would have woken? I called and called, and I must have knocked hard enough on the door to bring half the theatre running!"

Christine almost flinched away from him, from the earnestness in his expression. She didn't want to lie to him, almost hated herself for it – he was still her friend, after all – but neither could she begin to conceive of telling him the truth.

"Sound travels in strange ways up there," she said, and comforted herself that she wasn't quite lying. There were some places in the opera house where sound travelled from one room to another, carried by some draft, and equally there were others where it was hard to hear someone standing at the other side of the same room. "I wanted to be alone, so I locked the door, and I really did fall asleep there," she told him.

"Really, Monsieur," interjected André. "This is beside the point. Buquet's death was…an accident. That's all, an accident." He rounded the desk, shuffled papers, and Christine caught a glimpse of several pieces of black-lined paper. "Whether this Ghost exists or not, he had nothing to do with it. Carlotta, on the other hand…"

"Well, that's outside my remit," said Fournier. "It may be a case of blackmail, these strange letters you get, or it may not. Until you've more evidence, we can do nothing." He shrugged, and Christine bit her tongue, hoped Erik was listening, hoped he would realise the dangerous line he was walking.

"Whoever he is, he's a madman," Firmin muttered. "And whatever he did last night to Carlotta – well, it could have ruined us! Thankfully Mademoiselle Daaé could sing the part."

"Monsieur, may I ask," Christine interjected then, and he turned to her, as though surprised that she was still present. "Am I to continue in the part? Or will Signora Giudicelli be returning?"

André shrugged eloquently. "Well, for the time being the role is yours," he told her. "It seems the Ghost will have his way." Christine said nothing to that, lowered her gaze. "I'm sure Carlotta will be back, but yes, for the moment you're to continue."

"Thank you, Monsieur," she said. "Is there anything else I can help with?"

"Not if Monsieur Fournier is finished," Firmin said, and she looked at the policeman, who waved a hand in dismissal.

"Yes, yes," he said. "Quite finished. Thank you for your help, Mademoiselle."

Christine didn't wait a moment longer than she had to; she rose, nodded to the men, and left the office, shutting the door firmly behind her. She walked down the hall, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, and turned back only when the door opened once more, when Raoul called her name and hurried to catch up with her.

"Christine, may I speak with you?" he asked, and Christine stifled a sigh, looked up at him.

"I should really be going," she said. "I must speak to Monsieur Reyer, and Madame Giry, and I have a singing lesson after lunch."

"A lesson," he repeated, frowning at her once more. "Who is your teacher, Christine? Was that who I heard last night in your dressing room?"

"I told you," said Christine, shaking her head, lying to him almost too easily. "There was nobody there but me. Please, Raoul, why can't you believe me?"

"I'm worried about you," he said, and he took her hands, squeezed them gently. "Why did you run from me last night?" And then he caught sight of the ring on her finger. His eyes widened, he looked at her in shock and Christine stared back, feeling suddenly caught. "Why – why, Christine, are you engaged?"

"Yes," she managed, and pulled her hands from his. "Yes, I am." She glanced around, shook her head. "Raoul, I must go," she claimed, but he caught her hand again, grasped her elbow to keep her with him.

"Who are you engaged to?" he asked, and Christine shook her head again. She couldn't say, couldn't even begin to work out how to answer him. "Are you – do you love him?"

Now Christine found strength; she straightened, pulled herself from his grip. "You're my friend, Raoul," she said, with quiet dignity. "But you don't know me, and you mustn't think I owe you an explanation. I am engaged. That should be enough."

And then she turned, she walked away, and she knew the opera house well enough to slip into a back passage before he had the wit to follow her.

She would take the ring off, she resolved, hide it on a chain around her neck. Erik would not like it, but it would be better than trying to find explanations for her friends.


	16. Chapter 16

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Everyone at the opera house was unsettled for some time after Fournier completed his investigations and ruled Buquet's death accidental. Carlotta returned after just over a week, reclaiming her role and title as lead soprano, and she had insisted that Christine not be allowed even the mute part, so Christine found herself without a role at all, without any part of the production, much to Erik's displeasure.<p>

She managed to convince him to leave well enough alone, for the time being at least, and he had agreed on condition that she spend her days with him instead. It was not a hardship, although she knew her friends wondered where and how she passed her time.

Meg, of course, knew exactly where she was going, and grew quieter with each day, watched Christine with wide, observant eyes. She had not yet discovered Christine's ring, but Christine almost dreaded that revelation, dreaded trying to explain herself to her dearest friend.

Two weeks passed in this manner; Christine met Erik each day in her dressing room and he took her down to his home, where they had lessons and shared meals, and she grew to know him a little better. She wore his ring when she was with him, knew he hated to see her conceal it, and she couldn't deny to herself that she loved to wear it.

It was at the end of one such visit that Meg discovered the engagement. Erik had brought Christine back to her dressing room at the end of the evening, had lingered a few moments, when suddenly the door was flung open and Meg appeared.

She had not clearly not expected to find Christine at all, let alone to find her with the Opera Ghost, and her mouth dropped open, her eyes were wide, and Christine darted to shut the door, glanced back to find Erik disappearing through the mirror.

"Don't scream," she begged Meg. "Please, it's alright, don't scream."

"I – I won't," Meg gasped, staring at the mirror. "Christine – was that – was that _him_?"

"Yes," said Christine, and she took Meg's arm, brought her to sit at the dressing table. "Please – don't be upset," she said. "You must have known where I was going." She knelt before her friend, clasped her hands and looked up at her hopefully. She didn't want to fall out with Meg, and the odd quiet of the past two weeks was wearing on her. "I don't want you to hate me," she said, and bit her lip as Meg finally drew her gaze away from the mirror. "Meg, please talk to me."

"I don't hate you," Meg said, and Christine could see it was the truth, squeezed Meg's hand in gratitude. "I'm trying to understand, Christine," Meg went on then. "But I –" She glanced once more at the mirror, a fearful glance, and Christine wished there were some way she could reassure her, some way of making her understand that she didn't have to be frightened.

But there was nothing she could say, nothing she could do. Erik _was_ dangerous, and most people were right to fear him. Christine knew that as well as Meg did.

"He's not there," she said instead – knew he wouldn't be lurking behind the mirror, wouldn't eavesdrop on her like that. In many circumstances he wouldn't hesitate, but he knew how she missed Meg, knew she had grieved over their distance recently. Meg nodded, looked back at her.

"I'm trying to understand," she said again. "I – I can see you love him, Christine. But no matter what they say, I know Buquet's death wasn't an accident!"

Christine bit her lip, nodded. "No," she whispered. "It wasn't." Meg made a startled sound, as if she hadn't expected Christine to finally admit it. "But Meg, what would you have me do?" She lowered her head, closed her eyes. "I love him," she said. "I can love the man without loving the sin. I have no choice."

"Oh, Christine," Meg murmured, and she leaned down, turned Christine's face up and kissed her cheek. "I know you love him," she said. "I can see how happy he makes you. But – he blackmails the managers, you know. It's extortion, what he does. And the accidents, and…and Buquet…"

Christine bit her lip, wondered if she could share the secret Erik had given her about Buquet, about Simone. The dancer hadn't left the opera house but she'd been ill for three days, barely able to leave her bed, and Christine suspected she had gone to someone, found a way to destroy the child.

"He won't kill again," she said, and knew it sounded false, knew it sounded like she was denying that he was dangerous. "He promised me."

"But Christine, what did he make you promise?" Meg asked solemnly. "Because – I'm sorry, but I simply can't believe he wouldn't ask for something in return." She shook her head. "Maman was right – she said he would ask more of you each time you saw him!"

"He isn't asking anything I don't want to give," Christine protested. "Believe me, Meg. He isn't – isn't demanding, doesn't ask me to do anything I shouldn't." Meg raised an eyebrow, looking for an instant just like her mother, and Christine flushed. "He behaves as a gentleman," she said, and didn't mention how he kissed her, how she longed for those kisses, for the worshipful way he touched her, when he _allowed_ himself to touch her.

"But you're right," she said then, slowly. "He asked something from me." Meg leaned back, her lips pressed firmly together, and Christine raised a hand to her neck, pulled the chain from underneath her blouse and showed her engagement ring to Meg.

Meg's eyes went round, her mouth dropped open, her gasp was gratifyingly surprised, and Christine smiled, laughed a little, undid the chain and slipped the ring onto her finger.

"Oh, Christine," Meg breathed. "It's beautiful! I can't believe it – engaged!" She frowned then, reached out and took Christine's hand. "But he isn't forcing you?" she asked hesitantly. "You truly want this?"

Christine nodded. "More than anything, Meg," she said. "I admit…I didn't expect him to ask me, not yet, and it was…" She sighed. "I suppose it _was_ partly an exchange," she acknowledged. "I asked him to promise me that he wouldn't – that he wouldn't kill again." She swallowed, remembered the horror of that night, then dismissed it. "Don't think he's forcing me, though. He isn't, truly. I want this. I – I want to be his wife."

Meg frowned at her, turned her hand so the light glinted off her ring. "I have to believe you," she murmured. "I can see how happy you are. And – and Maman did say you might do him good, didn't she?" Christine nodded once more. "But I still think he's dangerous, and you can't make me change my mind," Meg added.

Christine huffed a laugh, stood up and shook her head. "I don't want to," she said frankly. "He _is_ dangerous. I'm not stupid, Meg, I do know that. But…but I love him." She took the ring off again, put it back on the chain around her neck. "You won't tell anyone, will you?" she asked. "I haven't even told Madame yet."

"What would I say?" Meg asked, giggling. "That you're engaged to the Ghost? They'd only laugh." She rose, looked seriously at Christine. "But you should tell Maman," she advised. "The longer you wait, the worse it will be."

Christine nodded, accepted the advice. She would tell Madame Giry, of course she would, but she had found she enjoyed having it a secret, enjoyed feeling the chain about her neck and knowing that nobody else knew about it.

Except Raoul, of course, and she hid a grimace as she thought of how he had tried to see her over the past fortnight, tried to corner her and ask more questions. He had taken issue with the Opera Ghost, seemed determined to get to the bottom of the mysterious letters. She knew he'd tried to speak to Madame Giry as well, because she so often delivered the Phantom's notes, but Madame Giry was well able to take care of herself, and Christine knew she would not betray Erik's secrets, not even now.

"Raoul knows," she said to Meg. "I – he caught me wearing the ring, that day the managers spoke to me about – about the premiere night? He's been trying to see me ever since."

Meg's expression was grave; she shook her head, frowned. "He's been trying to speak to _everyone_," she said. "He's really obsessed, Christine. He's been asking about the Opera Ghost, and about your teacher, and he even asked me and Giselle if we knew where you're going now you're not in the opera."

"What did Giselle say?" Christine demanded. She knew Meg would have said nothing, but Giselle – although of course she didn't know anything about Erik – was another matter.

Meg shrugged, rolled her eyes. "Not much. She was far too busy trying to flirt with him!" Christine gave a startled laugh, shook her head. "Well, you know what she's like," Meg said. "She wants a patron, like Sorelli."

Footsteps echoed down the passage outside, and they turned as the dressing room door was once again flung open. Jammes stood in the doorway, long fair plaits swinging about her shoulders.

"Meg, where on earth have you been?" she said, impatient. "We sent you for Christine _hours_ ago."

"Hardly," Meg retorted. "I'm sorry, though. We were talking." She turned back to Christine. "I forgot to say," she said apologetically. "Some of the girls were talking about…well, about going down into the basements and hunting for the Ghost." Christine opened her mouth to speak, but found herself with nothing to say, and Meg made a face. "It's Halloween tomorrow," she excused. "We won't go very far anyway, it's dark down there."

"And cold," Jammes chimed in. "And we won't have long before Madame Giry finds we're not in bed, so if you're going to come, we should go _now_." She disappeared down the corridor, left Meg and Christine looking at each other.

"We won't find anything," Meg said, and she shrugged, glanced at the mirror. "We won't go down very far – Jammes is right, it will be far too cold. It's just a little fun, really."

"I thought you were scared of him," Christine murmured, and Meg nodded, conceded the point

"I am. But that's because I know more about him, I think. The others just want to be scared, you know? They want a thrill." She shrugged once more, turned and went to the door. "It would be nice if you came," she said, almost wistful now. "We never seem to do anything together these days."

Christine didn't say that it was Meg who had caused their distance, wouldn't be so cruel. It was enough that they were together now, and she made sure her ring was hidden, joined Meg and took her hand.

"I wouldn't know the way down anyway," she confided. "Erik has his own passageways."

Meg's glance showed her wonder, and she squeezed Christine's hand. "Perhaps…one day…you could show me," she said. "One day."

Christine nodded, wondered what Erik would make of such a request, and then put the thought from her mind for the present.


	17. Chapter 17

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"I was right," declared Jammes, clutching her shawl around herself, "it <em>is<em> cold down here!"

Nearly half a dozen of the dancers, as well as Christine, had ventured down as far as the third basement, just beyond the well-used areas of the subterranean levels, and now they stood at the top of a staircase – more like a ladder, Christine observed – that led down to the fourth level.

She didn't wonder that Jammes was cold; the young girl wore her practice tutu and a shawl, warm enough for the upper levels and the stage but far too cold for down here. Christine was better-clothed, but even her hands were white with cold now.

"You're scared," Giselle goaded her. "That's why you don't want to go on!"

"I am not!" Jammes snapped, and she put a foot down, delicately, onto the top step. "I'm not," she repeated, more hesitant this time, and Christine bit back a smile, went forward and linked her arm through Jammes'.

"Of course you're not," she said, and she coaxed Jammes down, glanced back to see the others clustered together a few steps away. "I thought you wanted to find the Ghost," she teased them. "Don't you think he'd prefer the dark?" She caught sight of Meg's face – her pursed lips, the slight tilt of an eyebrow, and turned away hurriedly before she could laugh.

"I suppose you'd know," said Heléne, pushing through the group to the front. "Everyone knows Carlotta's accidents happened because the Ghost wants you to be a star."

Christine flushed, tried to speak, but Meg rushed to her defence before she could find words.

"Don't be ridiculous," she reprimanded. "Why shouldn't the Ghost play tricks on Carlotta? She's had her day and everyone knows _that_." She glared at Heléne, and Heléne made a face, shrugged and didn't protest. Meg turned to Christine, gestured her to keep going. "Come on, then," she said. "We're right behind you."

"Come on, Jammes," Christine said softly. "Look, the lantern makes it quite bright." Jammes huddled close to her, held the lantern up higher as they scrambled down the steps.

The fourth sublevel was used for long term storage – props and stage dressings that had been used in productions years before and never destroyed, old furnishings from the dormitories and workshops. There were chairs from the auditorium, the fabric too old and worn to be in public sight, old bed frames, several extremely tarnished mirrors that cast odd reflections as the girls moved through them, pressed close together and speaking only in whispers.

Giselle shrieked, and Christine's heart pounded as she whirled, took the lantern from Jammes and reached out for her roommate.

"A rat!" Giselle exclaimed. "I'm sure I saw a rat!"

"Oh, you goose," snapped Celeste, a bold girl who had only recently joined the corps de ballet, but who had nevertheless seized upon the idea of the Opera Ghost and had been known to declare _she_ wasn't afraid of him. "It was probably a mouse, and you see those all the time."

"It was a rat," Giselle said, and she was pale even in the lamplight. "It was huge! Oh, I didn't know there would be rats down here!"

"Maybe we should go back," Heléne suggested, and Jammes shook her head, stamped a foot petulantly.

"We said we'd go right down to the lake," she said. "We can't turn back now."

"Maybe we should," said Meg doubtfully, and caught Christine's eye. "It'll be terribly damp down there – if we ruin our shoes, Maman will have a fit."

But Celeste took the lamp from Christine, pressed onwards with Jammes, and when the others followed Meg and Christine had no choice but to do the same.

"This was a terrible idea," Meg whispered as they dropped back, to the very edge of the lamp's reach. "I never thought we'd get this far – I thought Jammes would be too scared."

Christine sighed, glanced around at the unfamiliar passages and dark, gaping doorways. "So did I," she admitted. "But she's so determined." At least, she thought, there was no chance of them stumbling upon Erik's home, or even the boat. The lake was large, there were several different access points, and she was certain Erik's boat would be well-concealed even if had hadn't returned to the far shore.

"But Christine, what if we _do_ find something?" Meg asked, clutching her hand. "We should make them go back."

"Nobody can make Celeste or Giselle do anything, except Madame," Christine said. "We should catch up, we're going to be walking in the dark in a moment." She was used to that now, but used to Erik's guiding hand on hers, or his arm offered to her in a gentlemanly fashion. He never let her trip or stumble, never let her walk into things as she feared she would do now.

"Alright," Meg agreed, and she released Christine's hand, quickened her pace. Christine began to follow, and then suddenly something grasped at her, an arm wrapped about her waist and a hand covered her mouth to muffle her sounds. Christine startled to struggle – and then relaxed, recognised Erik's voice murmuring in her ear.

"It would serve them right if I _did_ frighten them," he said, pulled her flush against him, her back to his front, and his hand at her waist, skimming across a hip, tracing her curves. "Hm, Christine? Shall I appear and scare the little dancers? That's what they want, isn't it?" His hand left her mouth, fingers trailing down her jaw, her throat, feeling for the chain at her neck and the ring it bore, and her skin burned at the touch.

"No," she whispered. "No, they'd never be able to walk through the theatre by themselves!" She turned in his arms, and it was too dark to see him properly but she lifted her face expectantly. It was exciting, to be with him like this when her friends were only a few yards away, and he gave a low, amused chuckle before acceding to her silent demand for a kiss.

"They need a little scare now and then," he murmured, and his lips brushed against hers, the edge of the mask scraped gently against her cheek as he looked past her, looked along the dark passage to where her friends were still just visible. "Just a little scare, Christine," he promised. "Nothing serious, nothing harmful."

She knew she couldn't stop him if he chose to do it, and she pressed against him, relishing his warmth in the cold basement. After all, she reminded herself, they'd come down here in search of the Ghost, in search of a thrill, and he wouldn't harm them.

"I'll blame you if Jammes has to have a candle at night," she whispered, and felt more than heard him chuckle again.

"Christine? Christine, where are – oh!"

Once again Meg had found them together. She stumbled to a halt, peering through the darkness, and Christine turned as Erik's arms fell away from her.

"Shhh," he said, lifted a finger to his lips, and Meg nodded dumbly, looked from him to Christine and back again. "Go and join the others, Christine," he said then, and Christine hesitated for a moment, then nodded and went to Meg, linked their arms and pulled her away, down the corridor towards the others.

"Where have you two been?" Giselle demanded as they were reunited. The girls had paused at an intersection of passages, darkness gaping from three sides, and they were huddling against a wall. "We're not sure which way to go," she added.

"Well, we don't know either," said Meg, tossing her head impatiently. "Anyway, we should go back. Maman will have missed us by now, I don't want a scolding."

"Me neither," said Heléne, who had the lantern now. "She's right, Giselle. Come on, Jammes, be sensible."

"You're just scared," scorned Celeste. "Christine, what do you think?" They turned to her, almost looking to her for leadership, and Christine felt unaccountably shy at the unusual treatment. It was as if they sensed somehow that she knew more than they did.

"Meg's right," she said. "Madame will be furious. And you've all got practice early, don't you?"

"You don't have to rub it in," Giselle muttered. "Just because you – "

The lamp blew out, plunging them into darkness, and at once Jammes screamed, and Giselle and Heléne joined in, shrill screams that echoed oddly in the corridors around them. Meg's grip on Christine's hand was painfully tight, and Christine wrapped an arm around her, wished she could murmur a reassurance.

"Little ballet dancers should be tucked up safe in bed."

The voice seemed to come from all around them, and even to Christine, more familiar with Erik's tricks, it was startling. It made the others scream again, and they crowded against the wall, huddled together. Somebody trod on Christine's foot and she bit back a pained noise.

"It's – it's him," Jammes stammered. "Oh, oh, I'm scared!"

"Isn't that what you wanted?" the Ghost asked then, and his voice came from right next to them, as if he were standing right there, and Christine turned, half-expected to see him. There was nothing, of course, but it didn't stop the others from shrieking, scattering as if he _could_ appear in their midst.

"You wanted to be scared," the Ghost went on. This time his voice echoed from down one of the corridors. "You wanted to find me."

"We – we're sorry, Monsieur!" stammered Heléne. "We didn't m-mean to disturb you."

"We'll go," agreed Giselle, her voice high-pitched with fright.

"We don't know the way!" Jammes wailed, and Christine reached out for her, grabbed her by the shoulders and hugged her tight.

"Calm down," she ordered – and unbelievably they listened, quieted, gathered close to her again. Meg was at her side, but Christine could barely see her face, could barely see more than the outlines of the girls around her. "We're – we're very sorry for disturbing you, Monsieur le Fantôme," she called out. "But we can't find the way out without our lantern."

He laughed, the laugh echoing around, bouncing off the walls, and Meg hushed the girls when they startled; Christine hugged Jammes tight and thought of how amused he must be, how he might tease her tomorrow for her formality.

"Follow the lights then, little dancers," he said. His voice was fading now, growing fainter, as if he were leaving them. "Follow the lights, and don't be such bold little dancers again."

And as he spoke a candle lit up, a little way down the corridor on a sconce, and then another further down. Christine couldn't help gasping at it, and Jammes clung to her, eyes wide with wonder.

"It's magic," she exclaimed. "Oh, it's magic!"

"Hush, Jammes," said Meg, and she pushed Celeste, prodded her to start walking. "Come on," she urged. "Let's go, quickly." It was clear she didn't want to linger, and Christine took Jammes' hand and hurried her along.

Tomorrow she would laugh with Erik; tonight she, like the others, must return to the dormitory and face the wrath of Madame Giry.


	18. Chapter 18

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"Christine!"<p>

Christine thought several unladylike curses, and offered Raoul a smile. "Good morning, Raoul," she greeted. He was waiting outside her dressing room, and she wondered who had told him she came here every morning, if any of her friends had told him. There was no reason they shouldn't have done so, not really. But she'd been avoiding Raoul, and she'd wanted to _keep_ avoiding him if possible.

"What brings you here so early in the day?" she asked. "Surely you can't have come to watch rehearsal."

"No," he said, and he looked hesitant, as if he expected her to disappear at any moment. "I've been exploring the opera house over the past few days, but I was wondering if you'd care to join me. I'm sure you know more places than I could discover."

Christine hesitated, bit her lip. The request seemed innocent enough, but she was on her way to meet Erik – he would be waiting, in fact, barely a few yards away behind the mirror in the dressing room.

"Please, Christine," Raoul said, stepping towards her, his hand outstretched. "I've barely seen you, and I had hoped to spend more time with you, while you're not performing."

"I've been busy," Christine said, and caught Raoul's disbelieving look. It rankled, turned her defensive. "I have lessons even when I'm not in rehearsals," she said, almost snapping.

Raoul nodded, smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry," he said. "Of course. And…and your engagement must be occupying you." He glanced at her hand, but she wasn't wearing her ring, and she couldn't ignore the hopeful expression that briefly crossed his face.

"It is," she said simply. "I'm sorry, Raoul, but I'm meant to be meeting someone."

"Your…your fiancé?" he asked, and Christine nodded. "Please, Christine. Just half an hour?"

She looked at him, saw his determination. He would not be put off, now he had at last found her, and she couldn't go into her dressing room, couldn't meet Erik there knowing Raoul might be listening outside. It would be too dangerous, because she was sure Raoul _would_ listen, would stay to see who came to meet her.

He would be suspicious – more than he was already – when nobody came.

"Half an hour," she said at last. "Alright. I must leave a note, though. One minute?" She moved past him, opened the dressing room door and closed it behind her again, before Raoul could join her in the room. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I couldn't say no – he won't leave me alone if I don't go with him now."

On the other side of the mirror, Erik snarled. "The insolent boy should take a hint," he snapped. "You're _mine_, Christine."

"Of course I am," she said quickly, trying to sooth him. She stepped to the mirror, pressed her hand to the glass that separated them, and now she was close to him she could practically _feel_ his intense jealousy. "Erik, I didn't want this," she said, tried to reassure him. "He's my friend but that's all he is."

He raised his hand, as if he could touch her through the mirror, and his eyes flashed. "Half an hour," he said, and his voice was cold, sent a shiver down her spine. "Take him to the roof. Nobody but I will be able to overhear your conversation there."

Christine nodded, knew better than to argue with him, not when he was so cold, so commanding. He was the Opera Ghost, and even she dared not disobey him. She went back to the door, opened it and smiled at Raoul.

"Let's go up to the roof," she said, feigning gaiety. "Have you been up there yet?"

"The roof," said Raoul, startled. "No – I didn't think anyone could."

"There are ways up," she said, and she took his offered arm, led him away from the dressing rooms. "Occasionally repairs have to be done, I think. We're not encouraged to go there, but the views are incredible." She and Meg had gone there quite often when they were younger, before Madame Giry had discovered and forbidden it.

She wondered where Erik would hide himself, how he would hear them if he couldn't get close enough. Wondered what he intended to do if he perceived that Raoul was being – what had he said? Insolent.

They reached the roof, and Christine led Raoul along a narrow ledge, across a roof and onto the large, flat area that had formed a perfect playground when she was younger. It was cold up here, windy, but Christine had been prepared for a day in Erik's home, pulled her shawl closer about her.

"I see what you mean about the view," Raoul commented, and he went to an edge, peered over and then turned to her with a bright smile. "You can see most of Paris from here." She nodded, watched him, wrapped her arms about herself. "Christine," he said with a sigh, and he returned to her. "You've been avoiding me," he accused. "I thought we were friends."

"We are friends," she said, and she couldn't quite meet his eyes. "I'm sorry, Raoul. As I said, I've been quite busy."

"And I was rude to you," he said after a moment, and Christine shook her head but he overrode her. "I was," he said. "I should have been pleased for you, and instead I asked questions I had no right to."

"You were concerned for me, I suppose," Christine said, and he nodded. "But you're right. You shouldn't have asked me that. Of course I love my fiancé. I'm very happy with him, and I'm going to marry him."

"You know, I don't know his name," Raoul said, and it would have seemed innocent but for the look on his face, the sharpness to his gaze. The cold Christine felt had nothing to do with the wind, and she stared at him, wondered what he knew – what he _suspected_, she corrected herself, for he could know nothing for certain.

But Raoul didn't seem to need an answer, didn't expect one.

"I've been learning all about this mysterious Opera Ghost," he said then, and the two things seemed connected in his mind, and Christine knew at once that at the very least he suspected she knew the Ghost. "It seems the people here talk about little else."

"Didn't I tell you theatre people are superstitious?" she said, laughing a little, forcing lightness. "Everything that goes wrong gets blamed on the Phantom. Jammes lost her ballet shoes a few months ago and she swore the Ghost had taken them. Of course they turned up, she's so careless with her things sometimes." Raoul smiled absently, but it seemed as though he was barely paying attention to her words – or perhaps she wasn't saying what he wanted to hear.

"But the notes aren't superstition," he said. "I've seen them – I received one myself."

Christine nodded slowly; she couldn't deny the notes, couldn't explain them away as superstition. She tried to think how she _could_ explain them, but nothing came to mind – at least not quickly enough to give him an answer.

"There is a Ghost," said Raoul, watching her carefully. "Isn't there, Christine?" She said nothing, bit her tongue. "You told me about the Angel of Music," he said. "That night in September, when I saw you onstage for the first time."

She lowered her eyes. "I wasn't being literal, Raoul," she said; a lie, of course, because when Raoul had come to her dressing room she'd still been lying to herself, still refusing to admit that her Angel of Music must be more than just a voice. "I spoke of my teacher, of course," she added.

"Your teacher," he repeated, and he stepped close to her, took her hand. "Christine, who is your teacher?"

She pulled her hand from his, almost felt like scrubbing away his touch – the touch Erik would have seen, and she dreaded his jealous anger. He would be raging, she knew, and could only hope she would be able to soothe the rage.

"You wouldn't know him," she said. "He's very solitary, he doesn't go among people much." She absently raised a hand to the chain about her neck, to make sure it was still there, to remind herself of its presence.

"Is he your fiancé?" Raoul asked, and Christine bit back a startled exclamation, turned away from him and shook her head.

"You're doing it again, Raoul," she told him. "Is it truly any business of yours? Is it not enough to know I love him very much? I'm going to be happy with him. And no matter what you insinuate, you can't change that."

"I'm not trying to change anything," Raoul protested, reaching for her again. "But after what happened the other week to that stage hand – I just want to make sure you're safe, Christine. Surely you can understand that?" He was trying to persuade her, and she could grant him noble intentions, if what he was saying was the truth. Meg's motives were much the same, after all; it was the action of a friend.

But Christine didn't need protection, from Raoul or from anyone – or if she did, she only wanted it from Erik, and only he had the right to offer it. She took Raoul's hands, looked up at him earnestly.

"Thank you," she said. "But Raoul, I'm a grown woman. I can make my own choices. I don't need you to look after me."

"I know you're hiding something, Christine," he accused her, clutching her hands tight. "I don't believe this Ghost is anything more than a man, but his demands, the notes – he must be a madman!"

"I don't know anything about a Ghost," Christine cried, and she tore herself away from him, retreated a few steps. She was shaking, she was terrified that Raoul wouldn't listen to her, wouldn't leave it alone, because she knew what would happen if he kept digging, kept prying into things that didn't involve him. She knew a little of what Erik might do. "Just leave me be, Raoul!"

"Christine, is he hurting you? Is he making you say these things?"

She stilled, looked at him in disbelief. "You think so little of me," she whispered, and the wind almost carried her words away. "How can you, Raoul? Do you honestly believe I could be with someone who manipulated me in that way?" She shook her head, hoped Erik was listening, hoped he could hear the conviction in her words.

"I'm – I'm sorry," said Raoul, and he sighed, raised his hands. "I'm trying to look after you," he said. "I know it's what your father would have wanted."

It was cruel, to bring her father into this, and it hurt Christine like a blow. She choked, bent over and wished for Erik's arms around her, wished for his comfort and support.

But he was with her even now; she knew he was somewhere here on the roof, listening to every word. She would be strong for him, would _prove_ herself strong enough to stand against Raoul.

"My father would have wanted me to be happy," she said, straightening. "However it happens, in whatever manner, he would have wanted me to be happy and loved. I am both." Raoul stared at her, stepped closer to her once more, but Christine shook her head, stepped back. "No, Raoul," she said firmly. "You asked for half an hour and I have given it to you. Please, no more."

She turned, made her way back across the roof, across the ledge, back into the opera house. Raoul could find his own way down, she thought to herself, and brushed away a stray tear. All she wanted to do now was to find Erik, or be found by him, to go with him down to his home and forget about Raoul.

To immerse herself in Erik's love and forget all else.

He caught her, hands at her waist, pulled her into the shadows under a staircase and gestured for silence. They waited, pressed close together, as Raoul came down the stairs and went along a corridor away from them.

"Come," Erik said then, his voice so cold Christine almost shrank away from him. "I've already lost half an hour of your time. You promised me your days, Christine, and I shall have them."


	19. Chapter 19

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine sat by the fire in Erik's music room, head bowed over clasped hands. Erik was playing the organ, an expression of his anger, but she wasn't sure what had caused it. Raoul, of course, but she felt as though she had transgressed, as though he were angry at her as well. It made her uncertain, made her hesitant, and the sharp-eyed glances he flung at her from time to time weren't helping.<p>

A final chord echoed through the room, and then all was quiet. Christine risked a quick look up, only to find Erik had moved, silently, to stand before her. She jumped a little, bit her lip.

"He would try to take you from me," Erik said, and it seemed more to himself than to her, so she said nothing. "He would seek to protect you. As if you were a mere child who couldn't know her own mind."

She could see his insecurity, see what he was thinking, and she rose, stepped towards him but faltered when he flinched away from her.

"You're doing the same thing he did," she accused him gently. "I'm not a child, Erik, and I _do_ know my own mind. He won't convince me I need protection any more than you convinced me to love you."

"I convinced you I was an angel," he snapped. "That's what you thought, Christine – that I was an angel sent by your father."

She flinched, couldn't deny it, couldn't lie to him. When he'd first come to her, she had thought that – and although in later years, more recently, she had begun to question, begun to wonder…she had truly believed him an angel at first.

"Would that I were such a thing," he muttered then, turning away from her. "Instead of – "

"Don't say it!" she begged, darted forward to clutch at his arm. "Please, Erik. You're not – whatever you were about to say, you're not." He sighed, rested his hand over hers, shook his head. He didn't speak, but she knew he thought she was wrong – knew how he saw himself.

"Nothing Raoul could say will change how I feel," she said at last. "Neither Meg nor Madame Giry could, and don't you think they'd have more chance of success?" He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "I love you, Erik. I shall say it again and again until you believe me." She reached up cautiously, slowly so he could see her intent, cupped his bare cheek in her hand. "I'm stronger than that," she whispered. "Nobody can sway me."

"Strong," he said, and shook his head, pulled away from her. "And yet you still refuse to let me deal with Carlotta." He was changing the subject, moving to more comfortable territory for him, and she watched him, watched his anger rising again. "It's an insult," he said, and he grew louder as he grew more angry. "To push you aside like that – you should be on that stage every night!"

"Erik, you promised," she said at once, and he snarled, flung himself into his chair and glowered at her.

"Yes," he said. "I promised. I promised you I would not harm her, that I would not kill, and that I would not make it clear to the managers that Carlotta's ridiculous demand for your removal from the production is…_unacceptable_." His eyes were cold as he watched her, and Christine waited for him to continue. "I promised a great many things, Christine. And in return I only asked for your days."

"Which I am gladly giving," she attested. "You know I enjoy spending time with you."

"And yet you allowed the Vicomte to steal time from me," he snapped. "And he would take more than that!"

She flinched, looked away. "I didn't ask for it," she said, and she went to him, kneeled beside him and looked up in time to catch a brief glimpse of his surprise. "The opera will finish at Christmas," she said, "and I won't see Raoul again."

"And when the next opera is cast, and Carlotta again insists you have nothing?" he demanded coolly. "Will you return to the ballet and be satisfied?"

Christine lowered her head, let her hair fall forwards to conceal her face from him. She didn't want to face Carlotta again, to be in rehearsals with her every day and have to bear the spiteful woman's slander. She could not forget what Carlotta had called her, that day in rehearsals. And Meg had related to her a meeting she'd witnessed with the managers, the morning after her debut in _Hannibal_ – the managers had all but accused Christine of having relations with Raoul, and gaining the lead that way, Meg had told her.

And yet how could she explain that to Erik? How could she show him how weak she felt?

"No," said Erik, and he reached for her, two fingers under her chin to force her to look at him again. "No, you will not be satisfied with that, Christine. And I will act, promise or no."

"No," she whispered, shivered with fear. "Please, you promised me."

"Threats," he shrugged. "Letters. Insinuations. As long as you remain true to me, I shall keep _that_ promise."

"I am true," she said, and she rested a hand on his knee. He inhaled, the way he usually did if she touched him unexpectedly, and she watched his expression soften a little. "You must believe me," she said. "What can I do to make you believe me?"

He smiled thinly, an upward tilt of his mouth half-hidden by his mask. "Oh, Christine," he said. "I could give you an answer, but I would rather you chose it yourself." He took her hand, lifted it to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckle just below her engagement ring. She knew then what he meant, knew he spoke of marriage, and she shivered again, but not from fear.

"I couldn't yet, anyway," she said, and she rose, went back to her chair, fiddled with the ring on her finger. "Not until I'm eighteen. Not without Madame Giry's permission."

"Hm," he said, clearly displeased with her reminder. "And of course you have not yet told the good lady of the current state of affairs." And that displeased him too, she could see, but she hadn't yet been able to summon the courage to tell Madame Giry, had found it hard enough to tell Meg.

But she would be eighteen in February. It was not so very long, and Erik was right; she must make the choice herself, not be coaxed into it to prove her love and her loyalty.

If there was even a choice to be made.

"I will tell her," she said. "Of course I will. I just…haven't yet." He almost laughed at her, at her response, and she smiled, pleased and a little relieved that his mood seemed to be lifting. "Meg knows," she added. "She can't decide whether she's terrified of it, or whether she thinks it's horribly romantic."

"I suppose either is fine," said Erik carelessly, "as long as she doesn't try to sway you."

Christine bit back a sigh, knew she couldn't attempt to persuade him that nothing could turn her away from him. If that grave sin, Buquet's murder, hadn't sent her running in terror from him, nothing could. She wasn't without fear – she feared his temper, feared the extremes he was capable of, and she was a little afraid of the depth of her own feeling. Afraid of _his_ feelings as well, she could admit to herself, because it bordered on obsession, the way he looked and spoke to her sometimes.

But she loved him. And she had spoken the truth to Raoul – her father would have wanted her to be happy, to be loved.

"Come," he said then, rising once more. "Your lesson. When you return to the stage, you will be brighter and more brilliant than ever before." Christine followed him obediently to the organ, took the music he gave her. She warmed up at his cue, the familiar vocal exercises, and then she began the song, one they'd been working on for nearly a week.

He stopped her before she could complete three lines, hands crashing down on the organ. "Your mind isn't on this," he accused her.

"No, no, it is," she said, couldn't quite look at him. "I'm sorry, Erik. I'll do better."

He shook his head, sighed. "Something's bothering you," he said. "Badly, to affect your voice like that. What is it?"

Christine glanced up at him, wondered what she could say because there seemed to be so many things bothering her. She hated to disappoint him like this, hated to allow any of it to affect her precious lessons, but she found herself near tears suddenly and she couldn't seem to find the right words.

"Christine," he murmured, and she raised her hands to cover her face, bit her lip hard to keep from crying. Then he was before her, lowered her hands, brushed his fingers gently across her cheek. "It's that fool boy," he said, clipping his words, angry once more. "He upset you – all that talk of protecting you, and your father –"

"No, it's not Raoul," she said, and if it was a lie, it was only a small one. "I – I'm sorry, Erik." He shook his head, as if dismissing the need for an apology, and she reached for him, leaned against him and closed her eyes as his arms came to encircle her, a hand at the small of her back. "You're right," she muttered, "I wouldn't be happy going back to the ballet. But I – I don't think I can face Carlotta again, and all the _gossip_ and the meanness."

He said nothing, but she was not discouraged, felt his arms tighten around her. "I love singing, of course I do, I love performing…but the things she _said_, Erik. And Raoul isn't helping – the more he seeks me out, the more people will talk. Some already think the only reason I sang the lead roles was because I – because –"

"Yes," he said, saving her from trying to say it. "I've heard the rumours." His hand stroked her hair, almost absently, almost as though he couldn't help himself. "There are always such rumours, Christine. You've lived here long enough to know that."

"I've never been called a whore before," she whispered, and he flinched. She opened her eyes, pulled away enough to look up at him, to see the anger on his face. The mask aided his expression when he was like this, made him the terrifying Opera Ghost who threatened to get his way, who caused accidents and scared dancers. "I know it was a month ago, but I – I've never…"

"You didn't say anything," he said, almost an accusation. "You seemed to brush it off. But no," he went on, slower now, thoughtful. "No, you were quieter…and I should have known." He sighed, raised a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. "I could kill her for that," he muttered.

"No, Erik," she said at once. "I – I must be stronger, I know that."

"Stronger," he echoed. "You, who stand in the Phantom's home, with his arms about you…you think you must be stronger?" She bit her lip, and his gaze dropped to her mouth at once, and she held her breath for a moment. "You are temptation itself," he muttered, and he kissed her, pulled her close to him, his hand insistent at her back. His mouth was hard and hot, hungrily taking what she offered freely, and she clutched as his shoulders, felt sure her knees would give way without his support.

Her skin burned, the clothes between them seemed too great a barrier, and she gasped into his mouth at her thoughts, moaned when his mouth left hers – but it was only to press kisses to her jaw, her throat, and then he returned to her mouth again.

She felt something hard pressing against her hip, and she knew what it was, knew she should pull away from him now. It would be so easy, she knew, to stay here, to let him keep kissing her, keep touching her.

But it would not be right, and so she kissed him again, let him kiss her again, and then she tore herself away, stepped back. He was almost panting for breath, his hands reaching out for her as if he couldn't bear not to be touching her, but she shook her head, took another step away.

"No," she said, her voice ragged. "No, Erik. Not – not yet."

He stared at her, dishevelled as she had never seen him before, and at last he gave her a slow nod. "No," he agreed. "Not…yet."


	20. Chapter 20

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine hesitated, glanced at Meg, found no comfort there and steeled herself, lifted a hand and knocked at Madame Giry's door.<p>

It had been a week since Erik had reminded her of her failure to tell Madame Giry of her engagement, and Christine had been trying to find the courage – and the time – to speak to her guardian ever since. But Madame Giry was very busy, supervising the lessons for the younger girls and practices for those who performed, as well as taking care of those who lived in the ballet dormitories.

And Christine hadn't tried very hard, she had to admit. It had taken another pointed comment from Erik, and a promise from Meg to accompany her, for her to get this far.

Madame Giry opened the door, glanced them over and then huffed a sigh, stepped aside to allow them into her rooms.

"Well, what is it?" she demanded, ushering them both to her couch. "I sincerely hope it's not more tales of going down into the basements."

"No, Maman," said Meg, and she clutched Christine's hand, glanced at her expectantly. "Christine has something to tell you."

Madame Giry looked at her, a long, assessing look, and Christine flushed under the weight of it, lowered her head and stared at the floor.

"Any other girl coming to me late at night like this, and I'd be asking if you were with child," Madame Giry said, and Christine choked, looked up sharply and shook her head. "No, I didn't think so," Madame Giry said with a nod, but she looked relieved. "Well, what is it, then?"

Christine pulled the chain from under her blouse, showed the ring to Madame Giry and knew she needn't say anything to explain it when Madame Giry inhaled sharply.

"You're not serious?" the older woman demanded. "How long has this been going on for?"

"Over a month," Christine admitted in a whisper. "Since – since the beginning of _Il Muto_." Madame Giry shook her head in disbelief, passed a hand over her eyes. "He didn't force me," Christine said then, knew it would be the next thing Madame Giry asked her. "I – I do love him, Madame."

"Christine," she sighed. "Child, I dare not do anything to stand in his way. If you say he did not force you, I must believe you." She shook her head, paced the room, cane thumping down heavily on the floor. "But Christine – do you see clearly? You _know_ what he did that night. You know he killed Joseph Buquet."

"Yes," said Christine plainly, and Meg clutched her hand tightly. "But Madame, I also know about Simone Bonnet." Madame Giry whirled around, stared at her; at her side, Meg made an inquiring sound.

"He told you?" Madame Giry demanded, and Christine nodded. "It makes him no less dangerous, Christine – his sense of morality, it is non-existent!"

"Then I will be it for him," Christine declared. "I can be his moral compass, Madame. He will let me, I think." He had done so for the past month, after all – had refrained from his usual threats and from the accidents that made the Ghost so feared.

Madame Giry sighed, sat down on the chair opposite them. "My dear," she said, "I cannot say anything. I know how you feel about him. I can only hope it will be enough." She sent Meg a sharp look then. "You knew about this?"

"Yes, Maman," she said meekly. Madame Giry snorted, shook her head. "I – I'm sorry for not telling you," Meg tried, and Madame Giry waved a hand at her.

"You are not," she corrected. "Well, it doesn't matter now. There are more important things to discuss. Christine, if you're insisting on this course of action –"

"I am," Christine said quickly, and Madame Giry raised an eyebrow at the interruption; Christine reddened, lowered her gaze at the silent rebuke.

"Then there are things we need to decide," Madame Giry went on after a long moment. "When do you plan to marry, child?"

Flustered, Christine shrugged, glanced at Meg as if her friend could help her. "I – I haven't thought," she admitted. She had rather assumed that Madame Giry would disapprove – worse, that she would refuse her consent, and thus the wedding must wait until Christine's eighteenth birthday and she no longer required her guardian's approval. But if Madame Giry was agreeing, however reluctantly, she couldn't see any reason to prolong the engagement.

She flushed, remembering Erik's heated looks, the way his hands lingered, the way she allowed it. Erik would insist upon a swift marriage, and it would in part be because of his insecurity, she knew. Marriage would be permanent, a certain sign that she would not – could not – shun him, be swayed from him by anyone who could not see past his face.

It would mean something that could not be disputed by Raoul's vehement protestations of protection, of safety. When she was Erik's wife, nobody could take her from him.

She smiled then, smiled at that thought, lifted her head and looked at Madame Giry. "Soon," she said. "I…I should like it to be soon."

Madame Giry's mouth twisted, not quite a smile but enough of one to show her amusement. "Yes, I thought as much," she said. "By Christmas, I daresay we could be ready."

"I have a wedding dress," Christine told her. "That is – Erik has one for me."

"That's something," Madame Giry agreed. "But you need a trousseau, my dear. Practically all your clothes are fit for rehearsals and little else! And living arrangements." She narrowed her eyes in disapproval. "Will you be living with him across the lake?" she wanted to know.

"We haven't discussed it," Christine said, felt chastened by her foster-mother's practicality. She couldn't imagine Erik willingly leaving his home under the opera house – it was safe, nobody could approach without his knowledge, and the portcullis was a protection he wouldn't be able to find elsewhere. It had been his home for so long, as well, and it was so easy for him to go above to the opera house, to pass through the walls and observe.

"I couldn't ask him to leave," she said, and Madame Giry scowled a little, nodded.

"Well, it's beyond me how it can be healthy to live so far underneath the earth," she muttered. "No daylight, no fresh air." She raised her hands, shrugged. "I can see there's no use persuading you otherwise. At any rate, I know you've been spending your days there, and it's not done you any harm that I can see."

"No, Madame," murmured Christine.

"So," said Madame Giry, clapped her hands together. "We will need to go shopping. God only knows what provisions he has down there, but you will need some new clothes at the least, and linens." Meg giggled happily, and Christine glanced at her, felt a little overwhelmed. She hadn't really thought of a wedding in terms of _marriage_, she realised, and that was what Madame Giry was talking about.

Married to Erik, she thought, and a slow smile crept over her mouth as she tried to envisage it. It would be strange, she knew, so unlike her life had ever been before. And yet…to have Erik with her always, to wake with him at her side, to share each day with him. To spend each night with him.

She couldn't think of anything more wonderful.

"It's no use, Maman," said Meg, giggling again. "She's not listening to a word."

"I'm sorry," Christine said, looked across at Madame Giry with contrition. "May I go and tell him, Madame?

"At this hour?" she demanded. "Don't be ridiculous. You should both be in bed. You're not going traipsing all over the opera house now." Christine nodded, shared a look with Meg as they thought of other occasions when they had managed to slip past Madame Giry's watchful eye when they were meant to be asleep. "I mean it," Madame Giry said. "To bed, both of you."

She ushered them from her rooms, watched until they were in safely in their bedroom, where Giselle and Jammes were both in bed, although not asleep.

"Wait fifteen minutes and then go," Meg said to Christine, ignoring the others. "She'll listen for a while, then she'll think we're in bed."

"Go where?" Jammes demanded, kneeling up in bed. "Where have you two been? What's going on?"

"I hate secrets," Giselle added. "Come on, tell us."

"You hate secrets, that's why you share them with everyone," said Meg, sticking her tongue out as she went to her bed and began unbuttoning her bodice. "It's none of your business."

"Oh, Christine," said Jammes, complaining, "you never tell us anything anymore."

"I'm sorry, Jammes," said Christine, and she peered at herself in the small mirror on the wall, combed her fingers through her hair to tidy it. "I – I'll try to tell you soon." She glanced over her shoulder, smiled at the younger girl. She wouldn't be able to keep it a secret forever, after all. Once she and Erik were married, she would not conceal her wedding ring – wouldn't dream of doing so.

She couldn't think what she would say, when she was asked who her husband was, why she hadn't spoken of an engagement before. She would have to speak to Madame Giry again, she knew, to try to work out some story that would neither deny the truth, nor reveal it.

Fifteen minutes passed slowly, and Meg helped her to rebuff the continued questioning. At last Christine heard the clock in the hall strike quarter to the hour, caught up her shawl and crept from the room.

It didn't occur to her until she was halfway to her dressing room that Erik wouldn't be expecting her, wouldn't be waiting there. She didn't falter though, slipped through the dark corridors and staircases, and when she reached her dressing room she went to her mirror, felt for the secret catch she'd seen Erik use to open the mirror from this side.

Then she did hesitate. Erik had warned her several times about attempting to go down to his home without her, warned her about the dangers of it. And yet she didn't feel she could wait until the morning to tell him the good news, the news that they could be married in just a few short weeks.

A draft blew through from the dark tunnel beyond the mirror, and Christine peered down it, bit her lip. Then, decided, she lit the candle on her dressing table, lifted it high and stepped across the threshold. She turned to close the door, slid the glass into place, and then slowly, cautiously, began to walk down the sloping passageway.

She went slowly, shielding the candle from drafts, making sure every footstep was safe before taking another. She was sure of the way, but unsure of Erik's traps, and she clung to the wall as much as she could until she scraped her arm against rough rock, flinched at the stinging pain.

Halfway down, Christine hadn't encountered any traps and she was wondering, half-seriously, if Erik had only told her of them to dissuade her from coming. It was slower and harder without Erik, stumbling along in the near-darkness without his reassuring guidance and his arm to steady her, but not impossible.

And then she tripped, her foot catching on the uneven floor, and she was flung to the ground, the candle flying from her hand. The flame extinguished; Christine lay on the ground, felt the familiar pain of a sprained ankle. She'd had several over the years, knew it immediately. Knew she could possibly limp on it, but not alone, not in the dark, not all the way down to the lake.

Christine bit her lip hard, tasted blood in her mouth, refused to cry. She sat up, swinging her leg around to feel her ankle gingerly. It was already swelling, and she knew there was very little chance of her limping any distance.

"Bother," she muttered. "Stupid, stupid Christine." She'd been far too headstrong, far too determined, and she was going to pay for it. Erik might not find her for hours – wouldn't find her, unless he came this way for some reason before the time they were due to meet in the morning.

"Christine?" Erik materialised out of the darkness, glanced her over and crouched beside her. "What on earth are you doing here?" he demanded. "No – it can wait." He reached out for her, one arm sliding beneath her knees and one under her arms. "Hold on," he instructed her, and she obediently wrapped her arms around his neck, rested her head against his shoulder and couldn't help a smile at his tenderness.

"Silly girl," he muttered, and she tilted her head up, kissed the bare cheek closest to her.


	21. Chapter 21

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine winced as she finished changing into her nightdress, wriggled her way up the bed and lifted her swollen ankle onto the pile of pillows Erik had arranged. He'd left her in her bedroom to get changed, but he would return soon, and she knew he would be displeased with her.<p>

Still, she thought ruefully, trying to arrange the blankets over herself without disturbing her ankle, she was going to pay for her mistake.

"Christine? May I come in?"

"Yes," she called, and Erik entered, bearing a basin and a pile of cloths. "I'm so sorry, Erik," she said at once, and Erik shook his head, came to the bed.

"I'm sure you are," he said dryly. "Why did you try it? I've warned you about the traps. You were lucky I'd neglected to set them tonight."

"I know," muttered Christine. "I – I wanted to see you." She caught a flicker of a smile, just barely visible beneath his mask, and she patted the edge of the bed, encouraged him to sit. He glanced from her to the bed, nodded slightly and put the bowl and cloths down on the dressing table before returning. He sat down slowly, tentatively, as if expecting to be rebuked at any moment. Christine reached for his hand. "I spoke to Madame Giry," she said.

He scowled at once. "And?" he demanded. "Did she demand you stop seeing me, call me names?"

"No," Christine said. "I think she wishes I didn't feel this way, but she understands that I can't do anything else." She smiled at him, hoped he would be as pleased by the news as she was. "She gave permission, Erik. She says we can marry by Christmas."

He was very still then, utterly silent, his eyes on her flashing with some emotion she couldn't quite name. And then he nodded, just once, clutched at her hand as if it were a lifeline.

"Yes," he murmured. "Before Christmas. Yes…I should like that." He released her hand then, rose and went to the dressing table. "I need to examine your ankle," he said, avoiding looking at her. "It might be worse than a sprain. Will you permit me?"

"Of course," Christine said. She couldn't help a flinch when he moved the blankets, careful though he was, and he paused, glanced at her.

"Are you in much pain?" he asked, and she pressed her lips together, wouldn't admit to it. "Hm. I'll get you something in a moment." He reached for her ankle, hesitated, and then his cool fingers brushed across her skin. "This might hurt," he warned her, and he pressed gently at various places. Christine bit her tongue to keep from making a sound, refused to make him feel guilty for helping her, as she knew he would. "Just sprained," he murmured. "I'll put a cold compress on it, then fetch you something for the pain."

"You're so good to me," Christine said quietly, and he spared her a glance before going to soak a cloth. "I'm sorry I was so silly."

"I should be pleased you wanted to see me so badly," said Erik, and he wrung out the cloth, brought it to the bed and folded it over her ankle. And he was pleased, she could see that, even though concern for her was overriding his pleasure. "You'll have to stay here tonight," he said. "And possibly tomorrow night. You mustn't put weight on that yet."

"I know," said Christine, sighing. "I'm so sorry." The cloth was cold on her ankle, and she shivered, pulled the blanket closer about her. "I'm being such a nuisance." Erik shook his head.

"Never a nuisance," he assured her. "Stay there. I'll return momentarily." Christine nodded obediently, although they both knew it would be several days before she was able to move without assistance. Erik left, and she leaned back against the pillows, wished she hadn't been so determined.

He returned shortly, gave her a steaming mug of some kind of herbal tea, watched as she drank it and smiled a little at her grimace of distaste.

"It will help you sleep," he said. "Do you need another blanket? I know it's cold here." He stood beside the bed, glanced her over, and she shook her head, patted the side of the bed again to coax him to sit. "Do you need anything?" he asked, and he sat, took her hand in his again, looked at her as if he couldn't look away.

"No," she said. "No, I'm alright. Just…" She hesitated, felt her cheeks warm at his gaze.

"What, Christine?" he asked her, and she bit her lip, glanced down.

"Please don't leave me yet?" she asked, shy, and his fingers tightened around her hand, a smile warmed his expression. "If you're not…too busy."

"Never for you," he said at once, and she raised an eyebrow, shook her head.

"I know you've been composing," she admitted. "I – I saw the papers on your organ. I didn't mean to pry," she added hastily, but Erik didn't chastise her. He looked away, fixed his gaze on something only he could see.

"Yes, I am composing," he said, and his voice was distant but not cold. "It is my great work. My opera." Christine held her breath, didn't speak, wondered what sort of work it could be, what sort of opera a man like Erik would create. Then Erik looked back at her, and his smile was gone entirely, he stared at her in a way that made her flush, made her aware of every inch of her skin. "I once thought it would burn, Christine," he murmured. "I thought it would consume me."

She looked at him, and nodded. She knew that feeling, she thought. Not as Erik did, perhaps – at least not for music. But she sometimes thought that Erik could consume her, his desire and his love and his devotion. If she allowed it, he could devour her and leave little behind that would still be Christine.

"And now?" she asked, her voice almost hoarse.

"Now…it will not," Erik said, and he kept staring at her, his mismatched eyes so intent on her, and she blushed once more, shifted slightly – and gave a choked cry of pain as she inadvertently moved her ankle.

"I suspect you won't be going anywhere tomorrow," said Erik, frowning. "You won't be missed, at least. I suppose we should be thankful you won't be missing a performance." His tone made it clear he was still angry about her absence from the stage, but Christine shook her head, distracted him.

"I _will_ be missed," she admitted. "I – well, Meg knows I came, and Giselle and Jammes know I'm _somewhere_. But Madame Giry…" Erik smirked at her, knowing. "She probably still thinks I'm in bed," finished Christine, and she ducked her head, let her hair fall across her face.

"Naughty Christine!" he said, and he was laughing at her, reached out to push her hair back so he could see her. "No doubt Mademoiselle Giry will inform her tomorrow, but I can leave a note, if you wish."

"It might be easier," said Christine with a nod. "I may need help tomorrow evening to return to the dormitory." She yawned suddenly, covered her mouth with a hand. "Excuse me," she said. "I – I didn't think I was tired."

"It's the drink you had," said Erik, and he rose, went to take the cold compress off her ankle. "You must have this on again tomorrow," he told her. "But it would be too cold tonight." He carefully drew the blankets over her ankle, made sure they didn't weigh too heavily on the injured joint. "You should sleep soundly," he said then. "But if you wake in pain, I will be just in the next room."

"I'm sure I won't," said Christine. Whatever he had given her was already easing the pain, as well as sending her to sleep, and the cold compress had helped as well. She yawned again, smiled up at Erik. "I _am_ sorry," she said. "But…I had to tell you. I couldn't wait."

His mouth twisted upwards in a smile, he came close to the bed, bent over and pressed a kiss to her mouth. He was still so hesitant in this – hesitated to kiss her, as if constantly waiting for a rejection. It was usually she who instigated their embraces, brazen in a way she had never been before. He touched her, yes, a hand on her waist, fingers brushing across her cheek…but his kisses were hesitant.

Christine caught at his shoulder to keep him with her, felt him lean against the bed as she parted her lips. She didn't want him to go, wanted him to stay with her…knew she must resist, at least for now.

He pulled back, as reluctant as she, and stroked her hair, touched her lower lip.

"I should like to keep you like this always," he murmured, and Christine couldn't smile at it, couldn't tease that he would not keep her in pain, keep her unable to walk.

She knew what he meant.

"Christmas is in seven weeks," she said, caught his hand and pressed a kiss to his palm. "By then we shall be married, Erik. I promise."

And then she yawned again, and Erik chuckled, left her side. "Sleep, Christine," he said. "Tomorrow you may talk as much as you wish."

"Alright," said Christine, and in truth she wasn't sure she could stay awake much longer. Whatever Erik had given her was potent, and she was fast slipping into sleep.

She watched as Erik went to the dressing table, extinguished the lamp there. He was barely visible in the light that spilled through the doorway, and she couldn't seem to keep her eyes open anyway.

"Erik," she murmured drowsily. "I love you."

He came back to the bed, tucked the blankets around her once more. "And I you, Christine," he said. "Sleep now."

She closed her eyes obediently, and he left her, left the bedroom door open and a moment later she heard him playing the violin.

The sound of it accompanied her into sleep.


	22. Chapter 22

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine sighed a little, leaned back in her armchair and let her book fall into her lap. The fire needed tending, but she knew if she tried to get up she would only fall down again, her ankle too painful to bear her weight.<p>

And even if the pain weren't enough to deter her, she knew Erik would discover at once that she had stood, and she didn't think she could bear the burden of his disapproval. So Christine made sure the ends of her blanket were tucked in, protection against stray drafts, and lifted her book once more.

Erik had been gone for nearly an hour, and she missed him, missed his presence here in his home. He'd never left her alone here before, and she took it as a sign that he trusted her, tried to see it in such a positive light and not let her loneliness override all.

He'd left her books, a glass of water, plenty of blankets, all within easy reach and he'd instructed her not to attempt to fetch anything for herself. He'd made sure she would be comfortable and entertained – and yet he was not here, and she missed him.

Christine laughed to herself, shook her head at how ridiculous she was. Certainly she could bear to be without him for an hour or so. She could occupy herself for that long – or at least she could normally.

She heard the boat then, heard Erik's boots on the rock as he moored it, and the creak of the portcullis as it lowered into the water. She turned expectantly to the door, only to stare in shock as Erik ushered Meg inside.

"Meg!" she said, and she smiled, glanced at Erik as he shut the door and went at once to the kitchen. Meg watched too, hovered by the door until Erik was safely in the kitchen and the door closed behind him. She was scared of him, and Christine wondered how Erik had convinced her to come – if convinced was the word to use.

Then Meg came to her, hurried to her side and bent to kiss her cheek. "Are you alright?" she demanded. "He – he said you'd sprained your ankle and couldn't come back yet. Maman is furious with you, Christine!"

"I'm fine," said Christine, taking Meg's hand, smiling at her friend. "Or at least I will be in a few days. It was my own fault, Meg." Meg knelt before her, legs tucked neatly beneath her. She had a bag over her shoulder, put it down and looked up at Christine with wide eyes. "I – I'm surprised to see you," Christine admitted. "I know you're not…comfortable with Erik."

"Maman said you'd need some things,," said Meg with a shrug. "And…oh, alright, I admit it, I was curious. He…" She glanced at the kitchen door again, leaned closer to Christine. "He was very polite," she said. "He said he would bring your things himself, but if I wanted to come, he would bring me. And Maman excused me from rehearsal."

"And you weren't too scared?" teased Christine, and Meg flushed, stuck her tongue out childishly.

"Of course I was," she said. "I still am, a bit. It's so dark, coming down here! And he didn't speak, apart from to tell me to be careful." She looked around, saw the fireplace, the organ, the sofa and the two comfortable chairs, all the things Christine had become so familiar with over the past weeks. "But I was more curious than afraid," she finished. "And I wanted to make sure you were alright, of course."

"Of course," Christine said, mock-serious. "I'm glad you've come, Meg." She meant it – she wanted her friend to know the things that occupied her life now. She knew, too, what it meant coming from Erik, his suggestion that she could come here. He had left the room at once, true, but it was another person in his home. She knew how strange it had been for him at first to have her here. For him to invite Meg was momentous.

"Poor Christine!" said Meg. "It's just as well you're not a dancer anymore, I suppose."

"Yes," Christine agreed. "I do miss it, though. I can almost feel myself getting stiffer every day." She gave Meg a rueful smile. "But I was never meant to be a dancer, not really."

"No," Meg conceded. "That's true. Oh, Christine – you'll never guess! Maman says I'm to be a leader of a row, next production, and she says I might have another solo part soon!"

"That's wonderful," said Christine, pleased for her friend. Meg might sometimes act like she didn't care about her dancing, might be flippant, but Christine knew better. Meg worked harder than most of the other girls, put in longer practices and it was showing in her dancing.

"It's well-deserved," observed Erik, who had returned without either of them noticing. Meg jumped visibly, her eyes going wide again, and she stared at Erik as he crossed the room, put a tray on the table by Christine's chair and then went to stoke the fire.

"Th-thank you, Monsieur," she stammered, and Christine hid a smile, knew Erik was probably enjoying scaring Meg.

"Have some tea, Meg," she said, reaching for the tray. Erik might have invited Meg here, but it was up to Christine to be the hostess. She poured tea for both of them, added sugar to Meg's – her friend's sweet tooth was well-known in the dormitory – and handed it to her. "Is Madame truly angry?"

"Very," said Meg, and she was still watching Erik but took her teacup. Christine raised hers to her mouth, savoured the warmth of it. "But I'm not sure what she was most angry with – you being silly enough to sprain an ankle, or…well…" She looked awkward, shrugged her shoulders. "Well, staying here overnight."

Erik made a noise at the fireplace, disguised it by rattling the poker in the grate.

"I'll be in the kitchen," he said, and Christine caught his eye as he practically fled, saw his amusement and his discomfort both, smiled at him in acknowledgement. He nodded at her as he went, shut the kitchen door firmly behind him.

Meg drank her tea, looked up at Christine over the rim of the cup. "I can't help it," she said candidly. "He _does_ scare me. But I suppose he's less terrifying in his own home. You can't quite imagine the Phantom of the Opera having armchairs and a fireplace and a tea set."

Christine laughed. "I suppose not," she said. "He – he really is just Erik to me, though." She paused, shook her head. "That's not quite true," she corrected herself. "But he's so much more than just the Opera Ghost."

"Well, he's been your Angel of Music for so long," said Meg. "That makes a difference." She looked thoughtful, glanced at the kitchen door and then looked back at Christine. "Can he hear us?" she asked, still nervous, and Christine shook her head.

"The walls are solid rock," she explained. "And the door is thick too. That's why he went out, so we can talk." She put her cup down, looked expectantly at Meg. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Meg claimed. "Was he happy that Maman agreed?"

"Yes," said Christine, smiling again. "We'd have married anyway, of course…but I'm glad I have Madame's permission, if not her blessing exactly."

Meg made a face. "Well, you couldn't have expected _that_," she said practically. "What would you have done, Christine? Waited until your birthday?"

"Probably," said Christine, and thought of Erik's impatience, thought of the way he looked at her and touched her. Thought of his jealousy over Raoul, and thought that perhaps they wouldn't have waited. It would have been a simple thing, after all, for him to lie to a priest. Christine could never approve of it, of course, and yet…

And yet February would seem so very far away, had Madame Giry not agreed to allow her to marry before her eighteenth birthday.

Meg's expression was knowing as she put her cup down on the tray, pulled her shawl closer around her.

"It's cold down here," she complained. "So when will you marry? Maman said before Christmas. Will you let me be a bridesmaid?" She giggled, clapped her hands. "Bridesmaid for the marriage of the Opera Ghost," she said. "What a thought!"

But Christine didn't smile; she wondered what Erik was hoping for in the wedding – what he was expecting, if anything. He had a dress for her, a beautiful dress, but what else would he want? She would like to be married in the church she had been attending since she came to Paris, but he…

"I'm sorry," said Meg. "I've said something wrong."

"No," said Christine, but she spoke slowly, tried to order her thoughts. "No, you haven't. I just…I haven't really thought about the wedding at all." Meg raised an eyebrow in disbelief, and Christine managed a slight smile. "Oh, you know what I mean," she said. "The actual wedding. I've been so happy, I haven't really thought about the future."

There was more than the wedding to think of, she realised suddenly. More than simply her future as Erik's wife. There was her career as well – for she knew Erik would not be content to allow her to sing only for him, would demand she return to the stage as the prima donna he had always wanted her to be.

He had promised to restrain himself for this production, but not for the next. And she did not want to always be restraining him, to always be asking him to resist his inclination to interfere with the running of the opera house.

She knew Monsieur Reyer, at least, was in fact rather grateful for Erik's interference – knew the director had on occasion argued that the Opera Ghost's observations were accurate and helpful to him.

No, she could not ask him to desist, and she longed to be on the stage again as well, felt odd as the weeks passed without any chance of performing. So something must change, but she dreaded the reaction of the new managers, knew they would use any excuse to resist Erik's demands.

"Christine?" said Meg, resting a hand on her knee, and Christine shook herself free of her thoughts.

"Of course I want you to be my bridesmaid," she said. "Who else would I have? Anyway, it will only be small. Just you and Madame Giry – if she'll come."

"She'll come," asserted Meg. "You know she thinks of you quite like a daughter. Of course she wouldn't miss it – even if you are to become Madame le Fantôme!"

Christine couldn't help laughing, even as she wondered what Erik's last name was – if he _had_ a last name, a ridiculous notion for she was sure he must have one.

"Perhaps I should begin sending notes and making my own demands!" she said, still laughing, and she leaned back in her chair, pictured Carlotta's face if another ghost were to appear.

"Oh," said Meg, and her mirth faded. "I meant to tell you. The Vicomte was asking for you this morning." Christine made a face, felt a moment's gladness that Erik was in the other room and couldn't hear this. "Maman told him you'd sprained your ankle, and that you'd be in bed for days," Meg continued. "He wanted to go up to the dormitory and see you!"

Men were forbidden in the girls' dormitories, and similarly women were banned from the male dancers' rooms. Christine could well imagine Madame Giry's reaction to _that_ particular demand from Raoul, and she shook her head, rolled her eyes.

"Of course he did," she said. "He cannot seem to take the hint, Meg. You will help me dissuade him, won't you?"

"Happily," said Meg at once. "I don't like the way he thinks he's got the right to look into every last thing around here," she added at Christine's enquiring look. "And Maman dislikes him, too."

"And thus his worth is decided," said Christine dryly.


	23. Chapter 23

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"You'll be able to return to your dormitory tomorrow," said Erik, watching as Christine held onto the back of a chair, lifted herself onto tiptoe and lowered her feet back to the floor again, exercising the abused ankle. It had been three days since she had sprained it, and although it still hurt, she could walk and had begun the strengthening exercises that Madame Giry always ordered for sprained ankles.<p>

"Will you miss me?" she asked lightly, looked across at him, knew the answer without needing a response. She knew he would miss her, knew he liked having her here, liked knowing she was sleeping in his home and under his protection.

He didn't answer, raised his eyebrow slightly, turned back to the stove and stirred the stew he was preparing for their supper. That had been a surprise, when she first started spending her days here – Erik could cook, although his thin frame showed he rarely did so for himself.

Christine sighed, and he glanced at her inquiringly, concerned as always with her wellbeing.

"I'm not going to make you a very good wife," she said. "I barely know how to boil an egg."

"I can cook," said Erik dismissively, and Christine sighed again, leaned on the back of the chair as her ankle began to ache.

"Isn't that what wives are supposed to do, though?" she asked him. "Make a home for their husbands."

Erik stirred the pot once more and then came to her, pulled out the chair and gently pushed her down into it. "Wives are supposed to make their husbands happy," he said, "and I assure you, you will succeed in that."

"Thank you," she said softly, took his hand and pressed a kiss to his palm. "But you know what I mean, Erik. All I can do is sing and dance."

"All," he mocked. "Your voice is incredible, Christine." She flushed at the praise, still so rare from him. But then he grew serious, looked down at her, stared in that way that made her feel so treasured. "Do not doubt yourself," he said. "You must know I do not care about those things."

Christine nodded; she did know. She knew that Erik would happily care for her for the rest of their lives, if she allowed it – he would cook her meals, fetch her entertainment, wait on her hand and foot. If she allowed it.

"I know you don't," she said, "but…I think I do, a little." He didn't say anything, the bare side of his face revealing no more than the masked side. "I should like to think I could be allowed to take care of you, sometimes." She offered him a smile, hoped he could understand. "Would you teach me to cook?"

Then Erik did smile, just faintly, and if she didn't know him so well now she wouldn't have seen it.

"If you wish," he said. It was clear the idea of her taking care of him was novel, but Christine didn't care. She wanted to be more to him than she could be now.

"Soon," she pressed. "Tomorrow. Let me help make our lunch tomorrow." He chuckled, shook his head slightly, went back to the stove.

"If you insist," he said. "What's brought this on?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Christine vaguely. Living with him for the past few days – confined here by her own stupidity – had shown her a little of what it would be like to live with Erik forever, as his wife. Domesticity was strange to Erik, but it was just as strange to her, she had realised. She had spent so long living in a dormitory, with her meals provided and someone to clean the bedrooms and bathrooms, that she had almost forgotten what it was like to live in a house.

She would be far from a normal housewife – even the thought made her want to laugh! – but she could be a homemaker for Erik. She would make his dwelling, here under the opera house, a home full of love for him.

"There are more important things than cooking," Erik went on, almost as if he knew her thoughts, and Christine nodded, clasped her hands together on the table before her. "And you will be performing. It's only right that I should provide a meal afterwards."

Christine made a face. "I won't be performing if Carlotta has anything to say about it," she said. "You know that. Anyway, the next opera hasn't been decided yet. There might not even be a part for me in it."

"We'll see," was all Erik said, and he didn't look at her, didn't turn from the stove. Christine took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then rose and went to his side, leaned against him.

"What will you do?" she asked.

"I haven't decided yet," said Erik, and he wrapped an arm around her, pulled her close to his side. She rested her head against his shoulder, watched as he added something to the stew. "It will depend on several factors," he went on. "If my opera is finished…" He trailed off, lost in thought, and Christine glanced up at him. "And it depends on you, partly," Erik went on at last.

"I won't stop you," she said quietly. "I – I will hold you to your promise about…about killing anyone. But I won't stop you doing anything else."

"But can you face Carlotta?" he asked dryly, removed his arm from about her and nudged her back to the table. "It's ready," he said. "Sit."

Christine returned to her seat, waited as Erik served the stew, sat opposite her.

"I think I can," she said. "I…will you think less of me if I say I think I'll find it easier to bear when we're married? I know the things she says aren't true, of course, but…"

Erik shrugged a little. "If it helps," he said. "You and I know the poison she spouts is lies, regardless. So do your friends."

"Of course," Christine said then with a mischievous smile, "it helps that whenever she's particularly loathsome I can think of her on stage croaking like a toad." That provoked a laugh, and Christine smiled wider, lifted her spoon and began to eat. The food was delicious, as usual, and Christine devoted her attention to it. The silence was comfortable, and neither of them felt a need to fill it until they'd finished.

Erik didn't eat much, of course, as Christine had come to expect. He claimed he didn't need to eat a great deal, as he claimed to need less sleep than she, and it was obvious that sometimes he ate only because she did, and to please her.

And she could see that it was not always easy to eat with his mask on, and although Christine felt more and more that she didn't mind, couldn't mind, she knew better than to suggest he remove it.

Afterwards he refused to let her wash up, claiming her hands were too delicate to be roughened in that way, but she took a towel and dried, standing beside him at the sink. He rolled his sleeves up to wash up, revealed more skin than she was used to seeing – revealed scarred flesh, and she frowned faintly, tried not to pry.

But Erik saw her glance, and he stilled, his hands submerged in the soapy water. Christine bit her lip, lowered her head and tried to concentrate on drying the utensils.

"You can ask," he said at last.

"I don't need to," said Christine quietly. If he wanted to tell her, she would listen – she did want to know, of course, but she didn't _need_ to know why he was scarred.

"There are things you probably should know," he said, distant as he sometimes was. "But I don't want you to know them. My past is…not pleasant."

"I didn't imagine it was," she admitted, and remembered what he had said about being a paid murderer. There was horror in his past, and she would probably be better off not knowing the details – she knew that, knew he was trying to spare her.

She dried a bowl, put it down on the draining board, turned to him. "You're still afraid I'll be horrified," she said.

"You've known me barely two months," he said, and he resumed washing up, his movements as careful and precise as ever.

"I've known you for eight years," Christine argued.

"Not truly," he decreed. "Many would say the fact that you're still here is miraculous."

"I love you," she said, and she reached out, stilled his hands, brought them dripping from the sink and clasped them in hers. "Erik, I love you, and I will say so every day for the rest of our lives if that's what you need." He shook his head but made no move to pull away from her; soapy water dripped to the floor, splattered her skirt and the cuffs of her sleeves.

"You're a foolish child," he said, but there was fondness there, and Christine shrugged, knew many would say he was right.

"Maybe," she said. "Is it foolish to know, beyond any doubt, that I cannot envisage a future without you in it?"

Erik was silent for a long moment, his eyes moving across her face, seeing her resolve, and then at last he shook his head. "No," he said. "No, that is not foolish." Then he did try to pull away, to disentangle their hands. "But getting wet _is_," he said. "It's too cold down here for you to get wet like this."

"I'm not very wet," Christine laughed, released him and picked up the towel, dried herself. Her cuffs were damp, and soapy patches were spreading on her skirt. "I'll soon dry by the fire."

"Then go," Erik ordered her. "I won't risk you catching a cold."

Christine thought he was probably overreacting, but it _was_ colder in the kitchen than it would be by the fire in the music room, so she nodded, reached up to kiss his cheek, and then hurried to the fire. Shunning the chair, she knelt by the hearth and held her hands out to the fire's warmth.

Erik joined her shortly, with a cup of her favourite herbal tea; she smiled up at him, took it gratefully.

"Thank you," she said. He took his accustomed seat, and she shuffled closer to him, leaned against his legs and rested her head on his knee. He was stiff, startled by her familiarity, but Christine ignored that, allowed herself the comfort of knowing he was startled only because he was still so unused to any touch.

She wondered what it would be like when they were in bed, felt her cheeks burn as she thought of it, kept her face away from Erik so he couldn't guess the direction of her thoughts. She wondered if he would shy away from her there, whether he would try to cover his scars, or whether he would allow her to see him, to touch him.

Christine knew what happened between married people – had grown up in an opera house, after all, and although Madame Giry had tried to keep them all as sheltered as she could, Christine knew. The dancers talked, after all, and while she and Meg were chaste, most were not. Heléne had talked of trysts with Henri, Giselle had spoken of her few encounters. It was pleasurable, she knew, and she certainly knew Erik could make her feel pleasure. It was evident in every embrace, every daring caress.

She lifted her head to sip her tea, felt Erik's hand brush across her curls and smiled.

"I shall miss you," he said, and she frowned for a moment before recalling their conversation before supper. He said nothing more, but it was enough that he had said it.


	24. Chapter 24

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"Ooh, it's so <em>cold<em>," Meg complained as they carefully navigated the street, avoiding visible patches of ice. "And it's only the middle of November!"

"Complaining about it won't make it any warmer," said Madame Giry, directing her two charges towards a café. They had spent the afternoon going from one shop to another, and Christine had been fitted for two new dresses. Now they planned to have tea before returning to the opera house.

"No," Meg had to agree, rolling her eyes at Christine behind Madame Giry's back, "but it makes me feel better."

"Sometimes, Marguerite, you are as childish as the younger girls," said Madame Giry witheringly. "Christine, keep up, child. We're nearly there. You'll warm up with a cup of tea, both of you."

"Yes, Madame," said Christine, quickening her pace, struggling under a load of parcels. Meg was similarly laden – Madame Giry had declared that even if Christine's future husband were not all that she might want, she would at least make sure Christine was decently outfitted for the marriage. Christine had been unable to protest.

"Christine – Christine!"

Shocked, Christine paused and turned to see who dared to call for her like that in a public street, to cause people to look at her askance.

"Monsieur le Vicomte!" exclaimed Madame Giry as the young man hurried towards them. "What do you mean by calling out for young ladies in the street?"

"I – I do apologise, Madame Giry," said Raoul, coming to a halt beside them. Christine exchanged a wary glance with Meg, wished with all her heart that this coincidental meeting had not happened. "I saw you from across the street," Raoul went on, smiling at them. "I didn't want to miss you."

Christine saw Meg's scowl, was tempted to mirror her expression but schooled herself to politeness.

"Regardless, you might show some courtesy," Madame Giry said severely. "Have a care, Monsieur." Raoul nodded, but didn't seem to agree, and Meg's scowl grew more ferocious at the perceived slight to her mother.

"I see you're going to the café there," Raoul said, directing his words at Christine. "May I join you?" Dismayed, Christine glanced at Madame Giry for direction, hoped her foster-mother would reply in the negative.

Madame Giry caught her glance, pursed her lips slightly and offered her a slight shrug. They could not refuse without being rude, and Christine knew it.

"Please," Raoul said, turning a bright smile on Madame Giry. "To make up for my rudeness. Let it be my treat."

There was no way of refusing now, and Madame Giry nodded, allowed Raoul to escort them into the café. He took the parcels from Christine and Meg, piled them up in a chair and ordered tea and cakes for them all.

"How are you, Christine?" he asked then. "I was told you weren't well, a few weeks ago."

"Injured," Christine corrected mildly. "I'm fine, thank you, Raoul." She didn't look at him, kept her gaze directed down to the tablecloth, and under the table Meg squeezed her hand.

"How are you enjoying being patron to the opera?" Madame Giry asked, directing his attention away from Christine.

"Very much," said Raoul, and the conversation was easy for a while as he enthused about the performances, complimenting the ballet particularly. Christine said little, sipped her tea and let it warm her.

"Do you miss performing, Christine?" Raoul asked her at length, forcing her to rejoin the conversation, and she nodded, glanced up at him.

"Yes, more than I had expected," she said. "The time away from the stage has given my teacher a chance to help me improve my voice even further, but there is very little that I enjoy more than singing." He stared intently at her, and she wished she hadn't mentioned her teacher, hadn't reminded him of her Angel. She knew what Raoul suspected, after all – didn't want to give him any grounds to realise that his suspicious were true. But he couldn't say anything with Meg and Madame Giry here – she hoped.

"And you've been so busy getting ready for the wedding," Meg added, and Christine smiled gratefully at her. It was a necessary reminder for Raoul, she knew, that she would be married soon. "She's spending all her time with her fiancé," Meg went on. "They're so happy together."

Christine squeezed Meg's hand under the table, nodded at Raoul. "So you see, I miss it but do not," she said lightly. "But casting will begin for the next production soon, I'll audition for a part then."

"A leading role, surely," said Raoul with a flattering smile, and Christine shrugged, finished her tea as she wondered how to respond.

"We hope so, Monsieur," said Madame Giry, saving Christine from the necessity. "She has certainly proved herself able." Christine smiled at the unexpected praise, so rarely bestowed. "Girls, finish your cakes," the elder woman directed then. "I don't want to be late back."

"May I escort you back?" Raoul asked then, signalling for the waiter as Meg finished her cake and Christine toyed with the remains of hers. "I'd feel much better if you let me," he added. "It's dark already."

"I don't think so, Monsieur," said Madame Giry with a decisive shake of her head. "We can manage quite well. Meg, are you quite done?"

"Yes, Maman," said Meg. "Christine, help me with the parcels?" Christine nodded, rose and helped Meg to gather their parcels together. Madame Giry waited until they were ready before getting up, and then she nodded politely to Raoul.

"Thank you for the tea, Monsieur," she said. "I'm sure we will see you at the opera house." Raoul nodded, turned to Christine to speak, but Christine avoided meeting his eyes.

"Yes," he said. "I'm sure I'll be there soon. Are you sure I cannot persuade you to allow me –"

"Quite sure," said Madame Giry firmly. "Come along, girls."

"Bonsoir, Monsieur," murmured Meg, dipping a brief curtsey, and she glanced from Christine to Raoul, her mouth twisting in a frown when Raoul stepped towards Christine, tried to speak again. "Christine?"

"Yes, Meg, I'm coming," said Christine, and she stepped around Raoul, offered him the slightest of smiles. "Goodbye, Raoul. It was nice to see you."

"I wish I could believe you meant that," he muttered, and Christine blinked in surprise, shook her head. She couldn't respond – not here, in a public place – and anyway, Madame Giry was right, they needed to get back. Erik would be expecting her, and he hated it when she was late.

"Another time, perhaps," she said gently. "Goodbye, Raoul." She turned and rejoined Meg and Madame Giry at the door, made sure her scarf covered her throat before they braved the cold journey back to the opera house.

"Why can't he just leave you alone?" Meg muttered to her as they hurried through the dark streets. "He seems to think you're – his property, or something!"

"He _is_ a friend," said Christine, but doubtfully. He had been a friend once, and she would have liked to continue to count him among her friends, but she had to admit that the more she saw him now, the more she resented his intrusion into her life. He acted as more than a friend – as a suitor, perhaps, but more he seemed to want to be a protector for her.

She did not need protecting, and she resented the way Raoul clearly saw her: as a child who needed guidance, needed a fatherly presence to ensure she was safe and cared for.

Erik did not see her as a child – oh, she knew he could not always have loved her as he did now, because she had been only ten when she had first heard his voice, a few months after her arrival at the opera house. But he recognised that she was that child no longer.

It was more than Raoul seemed able to do.

They met Henri and Heléne as they arrived at the opera house, and Henri smiled broadly at Christine when he saw her.

"Hello!" he greeted. "I haven't seen you in weeks. What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Oh, I told you about Christine's engagement," said Heléne with a laugh. "It's all horribly romantic, but none of us know who he is." But her laughter wasn't cruel, and her eyes danced with merriment.

"They've announced the next opera," Henri said then. "It's _Faust_ – to run from before Christmas to the end of January."

"Ooh, Christine!" squealed Meg. "A soprano role – and Carlotta's far too old for Marguerite now, you know!" Christine nodded, her thoughts racing almost too fast to catch at them. Yes, Carlotta was too old for a believable Marguerite – but they had shown Faust three or four times since Christine had been at the opera house, and Carlotta had starred in each and every production. She would not step aside without a fight.

"I'm going for Valentin," Henri said. Heléne tugged at his arm, clearly impatient to be gone, and he nodded at her. "I'm sure Reyer wants you for Marguerite," he said to Christine. "You will audition, won't you?"

"Yes – yes, of course I will," said Christine. She knew she could sing the role – she'd prepared most of the music with Erik over the years, at his insistence since the opera was so commonly produced. She _knew_ she could sing it.

"Come along, girls," said Madame Giry, but her tone was amused rather than reprimanding. "Auditions won't start tonight, but Meg, you are due on stage in a few hours."

"Yes, Maman," said Meg, discreetly rolling her eyes; Henri and Heléne smothered laughs and stepped aside to let them pass, and the three of them went up through the opera house to the dormitories.

"Put your things away before you go down, Christine," Madame Giry ordered before going into her rooms.

"Yes, Madame," said Christine, hurried along the passage to their bedroom. Meg followed, deposited her armful onto her bed and huffed a sigh.

"I don't think I've ever seen Maman buy so many things at once," she said. "Are you going to open everything now, Christine?"

"I suppose so," Christine said with a shrug, surveying the mass of packages, all neatly wrapped in brown paper. "It seems silly; I might as well take some of it down to Erik's home now. The wedding is only a few weeks away now."

"You'd only have to take them down later," Meg agreed. "But do you know which is which?"

"…no," sighed Christine. "Bother. I suppose there's no help for it, then. I hope I'm not late to meet him." She grasped the nearest parcel, pulled it open enough to see what it was. "Bother Raoul, anyway," she muttered.

"We were going to the café anyway," Meg pointed out fairly, and Christine nodded, knew it was true but couldn't help blaming Raoul anyway. Still, Meg was right, and being cross about it wouldn't help her to unpack any faster, so she pushed it from her mind and settled to her work.


	25. Chapter 25

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine sighed, shared a glance with Henri beside her. They were sitting in the stalls, watching the final few auditions for the ballet and waiting for Monsieur Reyer to make the cast announcements.<p>

Carlotta, seated in the front row, was already loudly proclaiming that she didn't know why Reyer had bothered to audition anyone else – and by that, she meant Christine.

"You're sure to get it," Henri murmured to her. "I heard Reyer tell the managers that he refuses to…what was it? To compromise his artistic integrity in _every_ opera."

Christine giggled, and Carlotta flung a glare at her over her shoulder. Perhaps she too had heard Monsieur Reyer saying that, and knew what it meant.

"We'll see," she said. "I've hardly any experience, after all."

Henri shrugged. "We'll see," was all he said. But the last of the dancers scurried off into the wings as Reyer appeared on the stage. The director looked as determined as Christine had ever seen him, and everyone waiting sat up a little straighter, quietened as he came to the front of the stage.

"Signor Piangi is to play Faust," he announced, without any preamble. It wasn't unexpected – and Piangi, unlike his co-lead Carlotta, was still a reasonably decent lead. At least, Christine thought with a smile, Erik never complained as much about Piangi as he did about Carlotta. "Monsieur Duval, you are Méphistophélès. Monsieur Lambert – Valentin."

"Well done," Christine murmured to him, and Henri grinned, nodded at her.

"Mademoiselle Daaé is to play Marguerite," said Monsieur Reyer then, and he looked straight at her, ignored the murmur that rippled through the cast.

He could not, however, ignore Carlotta's outraged shriek, or the way she rose so abruptly she almost fell over her own feet. Christine winced, wished for a moment that she could disappear.

Strong, she told herself.

"That – that little thing, to play my role!" Carlotta seethed. "Outrageous! Impossible! Everyone knows I have always played Marguerite!"

"Not this time, Signora," said Reyer, scowling down at her. "This time, Mademoiselle Daaé will play the role."

"I told you," said Henri to Christine in an undertone, as Carlotta continued to proclaim her outrage. "Reyer's no fool."

"Oh?" she returned softly, glancing at him. "How do you mean?"

"You're very good," he said. "And…well, we all know now that the Ghost favours you."

Christine grimaced, said nothing. She could not deny it – the contents of a very few notes were widely known now, those notes that Erik had sent the morning after her debut as Elissa insisting that she replace Carlotta permanently. Besides that, Henri was a friend now and she hated lying to her friends.

"I'd hope I've shown I'm capable," she murmured back to him. "Not just…favoured."

"Of course," said Henri, with a smile, as if approving of her hope. "You were stunning in _Hannibal_, and just as good as _Il Muto_ before Carlotta turned you out." He glanced sideways at her, raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "Heléne says none of the dancers knew you could sing like that," he said then.

"Meg knew," Christine said with a shrug. "It…my father always wanted me to sing, but after he died it became…" She lifted a hand, gestured at the stage. "I couldn't have sung on stage then," she said. "Not for a long time. I missed him so."

"I'm sorry," said Henri at once. "I didn't mean to bring up bad memories."

Christine smiled at him, wondered at the difference between he and Raoul. Henri apologised for any unintended hurt; but Raoul used her continued deep grief over her father's death to try to persuade her to reveal secrets to him.

"It's alright," she said. "I'm happy now." So very happy – another leading role, and as well she would be married in just a few weeks. By the end of the second week of December, so close she could almost count the hours now, she would be Erik's wife.

And nothing could tear them apart then, she knew. She would finally prove to him that it was not disgust she felt when he touched her, that she could bear to look upon his face and that she would not leave him.

She would never leave him, would never allow them to be parted once they were joined together.

Erik would know already of her casting – of course he would know, he seemed to know everything that went on in the opera house, and Carlotta's screeching, Christine thought, must be loud enough to penetrate even the lowest basements. But she found herself eager to run to find him, to share her joy with him.

"I shall leave!" Carlotta declared loudly then. "If I am not wanted here, I shall go elsewhere!"

"That is your choice, Signora," said Monsieur Reyer. "Cast, your librettos are here. Rehearsals begin tomorrow – promptly at nine!" With a decisive nod he turned and left the stage, and moments later Carlotta stormed out of the stalls – no doubt to find Monsieur Reyer backstage and harangue him some more, Christine thought cynically.

"Well, that's that," said Henri, and he rose, looked down at her with a smile. "And now I suppose you're going to run off and tell your fiancé your good news," he guessed, and Christine laughed, stood up and followed him through the stalls to the discreet door that led backstage.

"Probably," she said. "But you mustn't blame me for that."

"No blame attached," he said, motioning for her to precede him through the door and up the stairs to the wings. "I'm sure I'd do the same. In fact, I may go and find Heléne right now."

"Heléne will be at practice," Christine returned easily. "While my fiancé will be waiting for me."

"Ah, you win," said Henri. They emerged onto the stage, went to the stack of librettos that were waiting on a table, each with the name of the singer on the front. Christine found hers easily, delighted at seeing her name underneath the character of Marguerite.

"Go on, then," said Henri, nudging her aside. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"Yes – tomorrow," said Christine, clutching her libretto close. "Have a good day, Henri." She hurried offstage and through the wings, smiling at the few cast members who offered her congratulations, and then made her way up to her dressing room.

Erik was not there when she arrived, and she frowned for a moment before telling herself not to be so self-centred. He had other things to do, and neither of them had known when the casting announcement would finally be made.

Christine settled herself down at the dressing table, opened her libretto and began to remind herself of the opera score. Soon she was so deeply involved in it that when a hand landed on her shoulder, she shrieked, jumped, looked up to see Erik smirking down at her.

"Don't do that!" she scolded, and pressed a hand to her heart, had to catch her breath. "You startled me."

"So I see," he said, amusement in his eyes and his mouth. "I expected to find you waiting for me. What is so fascinating?" He knew, of course, and Christine knew he was humouring her, but she rose to the bait, smiled brilliantly up at him.

"They've given me Marguerite!" she said. "Oh, Erik – a leading part! Henri said Monsieur Reyer insisted." She rose, went gladly into his arms, tilted her face up expectantly for a kiss. He gave it to her, his mouth on hers and his hands spanning her waist, and her eyes closed as he kissed her.

"It is well deserved," he said warmly then. "And on your own merit. Yes," he said, when she opened her mouth to speak. "Entirely your own. I had nothing to do with it, my darling Christine." She flushed at the praise and at the endearment. Both were rare from him, and she wasn't sure which was more cherished.

"Of course, had they not cast you, I would have written several strongly-worded notes," he added then, rather spoiling the effect, and Christine gave a laugh that sounded nervous even to her own ears.

"But they did," she said. "And Carlotta has no part, so I won't have to brave her at rehearsals." He nodded, seemed to realise he was still holding her and retreated. She felt cold where his hands had been, pushed her hair behind her ears and turned to the dressing table, closed her libretto.

"I know most of the songs, I think," she said. "But I haven't sung any for a while. You'll help me, won't you?"

"Of course," he said. "Did you doubt it?"

"No," she said, glancing back at him, smiling. "But I thought I'd better ask." He was so handsome when he smiled, she reflected – of course, the bare side of his face could be called handsome anyway, but a smile quite transformed the whole, warmed his expression so much. She had to kiss him again, she decided, and turned back to him, raised herself onto tiptoe and brought her mouth to his.

"You should always have a leading role," he murmured when at last they parted, and if she was breathing a little too quickly, she was not the only one. "If only so you kissed me like that more often."

"I kiss you every day," Christine said, and they were still so close that she could feel his breath on her face.

"A fact I marvel at every hour," he said, barely a whisper, and she smiled, closed the last inch of space and kissed him again, lifted her hands to cup his cheeks – one warm flesh and the other cool leather.

At length they parted once more, and Christine's cheeks were flushed, she glimpsed herself in the mirror and found herself thoroughly wanton. She turned to retrieve her libretto, clutched it to her chest as if she could use it as a barrier – between herself and her desire, more than between the two of them.

"We – we should go down," she said, almost stammering. "The opera – I'd like to be prepared, for the first rehearsal."

Erik shook his head. "You know the music well," he told her. "I have something else I'd like you to sing today." She tilted her head inquiringly, looked up at him, but Erik looked almost hesitant, almost cautious. It was strange in him, and she waited. "My opera is nearly finished," he said at last. "I intend it to be performed here, in the new year."

Christine held back all questions about how he would see it done, about what he would do to ensure the managers' compliance; now was not the right time for them. Instead she focused on his hesitance, on his desire for her to sing his music, and she smiled at him, held out her hand for his.

"Are you sure I'll do it justice?" she asked lightly, teasingly. He took her hand, gave her an intense look.

"It is not like anything you have attempted before," he acknowledged. "It will take time for you to learn it. But that is why we must start now." His eyes were fierce as he looked at her, his fingers tightly clasped around hers. "You _will_ do it justice, Christine. It was, after all, written for you."


	26. Chapter 26

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine covered her eyes with her hands, took a deep breath and dropped her arms back to her sides.<p>

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm trying." She had been trying all lesson, for nearly two hours, to achieve the perfection he demanded of her, and she'd had rehearsals during the morning as well. She was tired, and she was acutely aware that she wasn't mastering this music as well as she usually learned new music.

But then, this was music unlike anything she had ever sung, or even heard.

"Try again," said Erik, unperturbed. "From the fifth bar."

Christine took another deep breath, corrected her posture and began again from the place Erik had indicated. It was a particularly hard passage, she consoled herself – and Erik had written it to stretch her, written it for her voice. She _could_ master this.

But not today; she missed the note again, and Erik's hands crashed down on the organ as he glared at her, all steely determination, so wholly the Angel of Music, so wholly her teacher.

"No, Christine," he snapped. "Here, listen." He played the bar, and again, and looked up at her. "You _can_ do this," he told her. "I know you can."

"I – yes, Erik," said Christine with a subdued sigh. His eyes narrowed, and Christine raised her score, tried to focus on the notes and words – the notes and words _he_ had written. But she was tired, and her fingers were cold; she lowered the score, looked back at him.

"I'm pushing you too hard," he murmured at last. "You're tired." Christine bit her lip, hated the feeling that she was disappointing him.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. "I – I'll do better, Erik, I promise."

"No, it's my fault," he said, dismissing the apology. "But this must be perfect, Christine – my life's work!" He looked away from her, at the pages on the music stand before him, and his fingers trailed across the page. "The culmination of everything," he murmured. "I know you can sing this, Christine – I wrote it for your voice."

"I'm sorry," she said again, miserable at disappointing him.

"No, no," he said, looking up at her once again. "You had a long rehearsal this morning, I know. We'll leave it for today."

"I didn't sleep well," Christine admitted then, went to put the score with the rest of the libretto on the table. "I _am_ sorry, Erik." She turned back to him, found him watching her intently. "It's so very different," she said, not trying to excuse her failure but needing him to recognise her struggle.

"Why didn't you sleep well?" he asked instead, and Christine made a face, shrugged.

"I had dreams," she said, unwilling to admit exactly what she had been dreaming. They had been more nightmare than dream, and she'd woken several times with little idea what had scared her so much.

She had wanted to find Erik, to bury herself in his arms and forget whatever remnants of the nightmares that lurked still in her mind, but after what had happened last time she'd tried to seek him out late at night, Christine had forced herself to stay in bed and try to get back to sleep – mostly unsuccessfully.

And anyway, she reminded herself, in just a few days she wouldn't _have_ to wander through dark corridors to find him, wouldn't have to console herself alone in her bed. She had seen the priest yesterday, had made sure he was still willing to perform the ceremony. It would take place on Friday evening, far later than the priest was completely happy with, but Erik had refused – understandably – for it to be in daylight, and Christine was adamant she wanted Meg and Madame Giry there, and both would be occupied with the opera until the late evening.

She rather thought that if Erik had his way, they would be married with little ceremony or mark of the occasion, and that it would have already happened. But Madame Giry insisted things be done as properly as they could, and Christine, torn between her guardian and the man she loved, had come down on the side of the former. She wanted to be married properly, and she'd said so to Erik when he had complained of the wait.

"Sit down," said Erik, and the transition from Angel to Erik was almost visible as he came to her, directed her to the chair by the fire. "Rest," he instructed. "We'll try the piece again tomorrow. Do you need something to eat? Or drink?"

"No, I'm fine," Christine reassured him. "Just sit with me?" He nodded, pulled the other armchair a little closer to hers, stoked up the fire again before sitting down. Christine watched him, fascinated as always by his economy of movement.

"It was a long rehearsal this morning," he said, and she nodded, grimaced. It had gone unusually badly, in fact, and had overrun by nearly an hour. Erik did not attend the rehearsals – she knew he was working on his opera still, and on other projects he refused to share with her.

"Piangi missed most of his cues," she said, "and then Jacques Duval collided with me so hard I ended up on the floor." She had banged her elbow, hard enough for it to bruise. "But I'm enjoying it," she continued then, when Erik said nothing. "And normally it goes well, you know."

"And how is Monsieur Lambert?" Erik asked then, his voice a low growl, and Christine sighed, shook her head. Erik had developed another alarming streak of jealousy where her friendship with Henri was concerned, and she was a little fearful that he might start up his tricks again on a target other than Carlotta.

"Henri is fine," she said, refusing to rise to his bait. "It's nice to have a friend in rehearsals. I barely see the girls now." She laughed suddenly, leaned forwards. "Madame Lecoutier – you know, the junior ballet mistress – she told me today that I should be looking for an apartment now that I've officially left the corps de ballet."

"I'm surprised nobody mentioned it sooner," Erik observed, and Christine shrugged. Most of the dancers, and those connected to them, knew by now that Christine was engaged and that the marriage was soon. Giselle had teased her, had said that it was all happening so quickly, and in a sense it _was_ fast. Christine knew that was why Madame Giry had insisted they wait at least a little, to save Christine's reputation – such as it was.

"It doesn't matter, anyway," she said. "In five days I will be here with you." Erik nodded, and his eyes seemed to flash in the candlelight as he looked at her. His gaze was heated; she knew what he was thinking, and she blushed, looked away, searched for some way to change the subject.

"I've been meaning to ask," she said at last. "How will you make the managers perform _Don Juan_?" Messieurs André and Firmin had proven entirely too resistant to the Opera Ghost's directions, and she couldn't imagine that they would agree to put on the opera – and such an opera, so unlike anything that had gone before it – without threats or coercion.

Threats she was sure Erik would not hesitate to make.

"It needn't concern you," said Erik, and he rose, stood before the fire with his back to her. Christine pursed her lips at the rebuff, tried to decide whether it would be worth pressing him for an answer. She didn't want to rile him, and yet she felt he was wrong – it _did_ concern her.

She shook her head, told herself it wasn't worth it. She would be told Erik's plans in time, and she didn't want to risk the coolness that he sometimes exuded, when her Erik faded away into the Opera Ghost.

"I will have some tea, I think," she said, rising. "No, Erik, I can do it myself," she added, when Erik turned as if to go to the kitchen. She could, after all, boil water by herself, and Erik's kettle was not so heavy that she might hurt herself lifting it.

Besides, she thought ruefully as she went into the kitchen, filled the kettle at the tap, a moment alone might allow Erik to reflect that she hadn't meant to cause offence by her question.

But he joined her quickly, flung a handful of papers down onto the kitchen table and looked at her, his expression almost daring her to ask him what they were.

Christine stepped to the table, picked up the topmost piece of paper and read it, frowning a little as she tried to understand the legal language. Something about the opera house, she could see that – the name was printed large and bold – but she couldn't quite work out what it meant.

She admitted defeat, dropped the paper and looked at Erik. "What is it?" she asked, and the barest smirk crossed his face before he went to make her tea.

"Deeds of ownership," he said. "Proof, if you like, that eventually the managers will see they have to do as I demand."

Christine stared at him, lifted the pages again and leafed through them, trying to see what Erik said was there. If it was true, if Erik _did_ own the opera house…and now she remembered what he had said, that first night when he had brought her back up from his room. He had said the opera house was his. 'Those fools who run my opera', he had said.

"But they think they own it," she whispered at last. "The managers – they think they own it, surely?"

"They may think so, but their title is more apt than they know," said Erik, glancing over his shoulder at her. "The contract they signed, when they took over from Monsieur Lefevre, was quite specific."

"But – but didn't they read the contract?" Christine asked, bewildered. "Surely they must have read it before they signed. Or Monsieur Lefevre – he must have told them." Erik shook his head, returned to the table and exchanged a cup of herbal tea for the papers. Christine held it in her hands, let it warm her fingers. "But Erik – are they real?"

"Of course they're real," Erik said, offended or feigning it. "I helped design the opera house, after all. I owned part of it then, and I've bought out the rest over the years."

Christine stared at him for a moment, realised for the first time that she had no idea how old he was. If he had helped to design the Opera Populaire, he must be close to forty at least.

She lowered her head over the teacup, wondered if she would ever know him, know all of him. He knew all of her – knew her secrets and wishes, her past and her future. And yet she knew so little of him, really.

Did it matter? she asked herself, and knew it did not. It could not, for she could not be without him. And in part she was to blame. She had kept to her resolution, had refrained from questions as much as she could. If she asked more questions, would Erik answer them?

"What is it?" Erik asked her then, and Christine looked up, tried to smile at him.

"Nothing," she said. "Nothing important, anyway," she added when he frowned. "I promise. So you'll use this to make the managers produce _Don Juan_?"

"If I have to," said Erik slowly, watching her cautiously still. "I confess, I would rather do things more...theatrically. Presenting them with proof of my ownership would be rather dull, don't you think?"

"I suppose," said Christine, knew well his flair for the dramatic. "But Erik – it _does_ concern me, you know." She put her cup down on the table, went around to him, placed her hands on his shoulders and felt his settle at her waist. "In five days I will be your wife," she said softly. "Will you share your life with me, Erik?"

His mouth twisted down in a scowl, his eyes narrowed and the mask seemed a stark barrier. Christine was resolute, looked straight at him and did not waver. It was, she felt, a crucial point. She could live without knowing his past or facts about him – even without knowing his age. But she did not think she could live without sharing in his burdens, his joys and displeasures. She wanted to share his life as an equal, not as a child.

"I am not used to it," he muttered at last. "Every day I wake and think surely today will be the day when you come to your senses and leave me down here in the dark. I would be a pitiful creature without you, Christine."

"I won't leave," Christine said, trying to assure him but knowing mere words would never be enough. "Never, Erik."

Then she did something she had thought she would never do without his permission. She raised her hand, slow enough that he could see, brought it to his mask. Slowly, so slowly, she slipped her fingers beneath the lower edge, eased the mask back and off his face. He was trembling, she realised, holding himself still through sheer force of will.

She looked at his face, the marks and contours that formed the whole, and she raised herself on tiptoe and kissed him.


	27. Chapter 27

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>It was cold and bitter, and Christine was glad of her thick winter cloak as she reached her father's grave. Erik, who seemed sure of such things, said it would snow soon, perhaps even this evening, and had made her promise to keep her visit as brief as she could.<p>

He was waiting for her at the graveyard gates, in a carriage he had hired, the driver paid well to keep eyes ahead and his mouth shut. Christine had reminded Erik she had visited the graveyard many times, usually alone, but he had been adamant in escorting her, and she knew it was a gesture of his protectiveness.

It had been a surprise, though, when he had led her from his home through strange tunnels, leading upwards until they had emerged through a small door at the side of the opera house on the Rue Scribe. She had realised of course that he must have other ways of entering and leaving his home under the opera house, that he must leave the opera house at times for necessities, but she must have passed the door a thousand times without really noticing it.

Christine knelt down, put down a small posy, looked up at the tomb. It had been erected by one of her father's patrons, far more expensive than Gustave Daaé would ever have been able to afford himself. It seemed wrong, somehow, that he should have something like this. But here he lay in eternal rest, and it was here that Christine came when she missed him most.

Tomorrow evening, she would be wed. She would marry the man who had guided her for so long, who had loved her from afar. The only man she could envisage marrying, a man who excited her, who challenged her – a man without whom she would not be who she was now.

She was, she knew, being melodramatic when she claimed she could not live without him. She could do so, if she had to. Her father had lived without her mother, after all, and she could remember her father speaking of his deceased wife with such love, such devotion. But she did not _want_ to, and no matter what anyone else said of Erik, she would marry him tomorrow.

Christine clasped her hands together, bent her head in prayer. She prayed for many things: for Erik's soul, although she knew he would not thank her for it; for a happy wedding; for her father's blessing, for she knew he looked down on her from Heaven.

"I know you sent him to me, Father," she whispered at last. "He needs me so, and I need him too. He's not an angel, of course, but…I know you sent him to me."

She rose then, too cold to continue kneeling, stared for a moment longer at her father's grave. She felt almost as if she were saying goodbye to him – goodbye to what the memory of him represented. Her childhood, irrevocably gone now. She could not have it back, nor did she truly want it. She wished her father could be here to see her married, of course – but if he had not died, she would almost certainly not have met Erik. She could not wish the past back at the sacrifice of the future.

"Christine?"

Startled, Christine turned, pulled her cloak tighter about herself and stared in consternation. Raoul was approaching, dressed for a night at the opera rather than the cold winter's night, and she frowned at him, glanced around as if she could see where he had come from.

"Raoul," she greeted. "What on earth are you doing here?" A suspicion dawned in her mind, and she stared at him. "Did you follow me, Raoul?"

"I saw you entering a carriage," he said, unapologetic, and came to a halt barely a few feet away from her – far too close for her comfort, and she tried to step back, almost stumbled on the uneven ground. "Careful," said Raoul, reaching out to steady her, but she flinched away from him.

"Why have you come?" she demanded. "What do you want?" Had he seen Erik? she wondered, and then shivered, cold in a way that had nothing to do with the wind that had picked up. Had Erik seen Raoul?

"I wanted to see you," Raoul said, falling back a step, giving her at least a little space. "Outside the opera house, where _he_ can't hear us."

"So you followed me," Christine said, couldn't help the disgust that coloured her voice. "I came here to be alone, Raoul."

"I need to talk to you," Raoul insisted. "Christine, I know your teacher is the Opera Ghost." The words seemed to echo through the graveyard, and Christine looked around again, a little fearful.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she lied. "And this – this isn't appropriate, Raoul. I'm getting _married_ tomorrow!" His shock was clear, and he reached a hand out for her, the shock quickly turning to concern.

"Christine, you must listen to me," he said. "Whatever he's forcing you to do, I can help you – I can protect you from him. You can come away with me now. I'll keep you safe, Christine." He stepped towards her, hand outstretched, and she shrank away, wondered if Erik would hear if she called for him. But the gates weren't close, and the wind was growing, would carry her voice away from him.

"Raoul, please," she said, and only hoped she could convince him. "He's not forcing me to do anything – I don't need protection!"

"He killed that stagehand, Christine," Raoul reminded her, frowning now. "I've heard the stories – and the notes, Christine! He warned me to stay away from you, and he threatens the managers!"

"Perhaps you should have listened, Monsieur le Vicomte."

Christine gasped, turned in relief to Erik. How he had appeared beside her father's grave she could not guess, but he was there, and she stumbled towards him, held her arms out and let him pull her to his side. He wrapped his cloak about her, his arm secure about her waist, and she wanted to hide her face but wouldn't allow herself to be that weak, to show to Raoul that she was scared.

Raoul was staring at Erik, horror painted across his face, and Erik glowered, the Opera Ghost at his fiercest.

"I warned you to stay away from her," Erik said at last. "And now you approach my _fiancée_ and once more try to take her from me." Christine shivered at his tone, at the anger there, but Erik didn't spare her a glance.

"She's only your fiancée because you've tricked her!" Raoul accused. "Christine, whatever he's told you, it's not true!"

"Once again you suggest Christine is so easily mislead," said Erik, and Christine could see the dawning realisation on Raoul's face as he understood that Erik had heard their conversation on the roof, over a month ago now. "I warned you to stay away, Monsieur," said Erik, his voice silky smooth, so dangerous, and Christine bit her lip, pressed against him, hoped her nearness could balance his anger.

"I won't let you have her," Raoul said vehemently, and Christine shook her head, stared at him.

"Raoul, I'm happy," she told him. "I'm happy with Erik. Why can't you see that?" But there was an obstinate look in his eyes, in the tilt of his chin, and she recognised it, recognised the source of his attentions over the last few months. "I'm not yours, Raoul," she exclaimed. "He hasn't tricked me or deceived me – not in the way you mean." Erik's arm pulled her even closer to him, his fingers almost digging in through layers of cloth. "Please, just leave us alone," she begged.

"I can't do that," Raoul said, and he didn't look at her, kept his gaze on Erik. Christine wondered what he saw, whether he was afraid, and then reprimanded herself: of course he was afraid. Even she was afraid of Erik, when he was like this.

"Sir," sneered Erik, "I had assumed you had some remnants of breeding, and yet you ignore a lady's word?" He glanced at Christine then, gave her the briefest of nods. It was enough for her fear to be assuaged, at least a little – he remembered his promise, she saw in that moment. He would keep to it, no matter how Raoul provoked him.

"I – I cannot believe she understands what she is doing," Raoul maintained, and Christine choked back a sob, couldn't understand why Raoul wouldn't believe her. She had never given him any reason to suppose she felt more than friendship for him, and could only hope Erik trusted her at least a little now.

"Have a care, Monsieur," Erik snapped. "I have been merciful so far, but my patience is limited." It was a threat, clear and obvious, and Raoul fell back a pace before becoming resolute once more. But threats were not all Erik had; he raised his hand, and there was something in it, Christine could see, something small – a moment later a fireball seemed to erupt from his hand, forcing Raoul to leap back to avoid being burned.

"I shall carry you," Erik murmured to her, and the wind helped to ensure Raoul couldn't hear him. "Be ready." She nodded, but his attention was on Raoul once more, and he repeated whatever he had done to cause the first fireball, producing a second and then a third, and Raoul backed away, tripped over something and fell over with a cry.

Erik acted at once, scooping Christine into his arms and setting off through the graveyard. Christine clung to him, her arms around his neck, until they reached the gates and the waiting carriage. He helped her in, joined her and shut the door firmly, rapped on the roof. A moment later the carriage departed and Christine, shivering, looked at Erik and found only the Opera Ghost looking back at her.

"I didn't know he would be there," she whispered. "Please, Erik, you must believe me."

"He has no right to see you," Erik said curtly. "He should learn his place." Christine shook her head, felt helpless. She'd said as much herself, had told Raoul it was inappropriate for him to seek her out like that. But if Erik did not believe her…

She shivered, lowered her head. Now Raoul had seen Erik, and all his suspicions were confirmed. She could not think of what Raoul might do with the information, what he might do to jeopardise her happiness. If he went to the managers – or, God forbid, the police – with testimony that the Opera Ghost was in fact a man…and Raoul would claim that Erik was coercing her, she was sure he would never admit she could love Erik without persuasion or lies as a foundation.

She raised her hands to cover her face, hiding herself away, hiding her thoughts from Erik's cool gaze. Her cheeks were damp; she was crying, she realised dazedly.

"You must believe me," she said at last. "You _must_, Erik."

He reached out to her, gently brought her hands away from her face, rubbed at her cold fingers to bring warmth back to them.

"I believe you," he said, and his tone was softening, his expression warmer now. "And I heard what you said. You…you are happy with me." He seemed to question it, and her heart ached that he was still so unsure. She nodded at him, and he tilted her hand so he could see her ring. "By this time tomorrow you shall be mine," he murmured, barely audible over the rumbling of the carriage wheels. "And then nobody can take you from me."

She nodded again, thought of Raoul's determination, his obstinate insistence that she was being fooled, and her shiver had little to do with the cold.


	28. Chapter 28

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"Oh, your <em>hair<em>," said Meg crossly, flinging the hairbrush down onto the bed. "It's never going to stay up."

"Then I'll just leave it down," said Christine, reaching for the hairpins that had sprung from her curls. "I have the veil, anyway." She put the pins down on Madame Giry's dressing table. They were dressing here, in the privacy of Madame Giry's rooms, away from the curious eyes of the other girls.

"Yes, that's true," Meg acknowledged. "Shall I just pin it back, then?" She took the pins, pulled Christine's hair back and pinned it the way she normally kept her hair. "Oh, Christine," she said then. "You do look beautiful."

Christine smiled absently at the compliment, made sure the row of buttons on the front of her bodice were fastened properly, glanced at herself in Madame Giry's small mirror. The gown was beautiful, this wedding gown that Erik had given to her, and she supposed she looked beautiful in it.

Meg finished with her hair, lifted the veil and placed it carefully on her head. "There," she said. "A perfect bride."

"Am I?" Christine stared at the mirror, found a stranger looking back. She reached out for Meg, fumbled for her hand. Meg clasped her hand, joined her in front of the mirror.

"What is it?" she asked gently. "Christine, your hand is so cold." She frowned at Christine in the mirror, turned to her and reached up to touch her face. "You're so pale. What is it? You're not frightened?"

"No," said Christine, the words coming slowly. "No, not…not frightened, exactly." She was nervous, a little, now the wedding was finally here, now her new life was about to begin. But more than that, she had a great sense of foreboding. She felt as though something was just about to happen, something to curtail her happiness.

She could not forget the way Raoul had looked at her last night in the graveyard, and the words he had spoken.

"Christine, you love him," said Meg, oblivious to her thoughts. "I know you do. You're not – not changing your mind, or anything, are you?"

"No," said Christine at once. "No, of course not." The thought hadn't even occurred to her, in truth – she wanted to marry Erik, wanted to be his wife, to belong to him and have him belong to her in turn. "I just – I feel as if something terrible is going to happen," she said then, and went to sit on the bed, pressed her hand to her mouth. She was almost afraid she was going to be sick.

"Christine," murmured Meg. "I'll fetch you a glass of water," she decided. "I'll be back in a moment." She went through to the outer sitting room and through the outer door into the corridor. Madame Giry came through to her then, stood in the doorway and surveyed her critically.

"You look very nice," she said at last. "How are you feeling?"

"I – I'm not sure," Christine said, and she clasped her hands together so tightly her knuckles were white. "I'm not changing my mind," she said, in case Madame Giry thought as Meg had. "I'm just…nervous."

To her surprise, Madame Giry smiled tightly, gave her a nod. "I suspect many brides are, my dear. There's no shame in it." She hesitated for a moment, her smile fading. "But you are sure you will be happy with him?"

Christine nodded. "I couldn't be happy without him, Madame," she said sincerely. "I know it won't always be easy. I'm not…not going into it blindly." No, she knew it would not be easy – knew his temper, knew how scared of him she sometimes was. And she could never forget that he was capable of murder, that he _had_ murdered a man, and many others besides in the years past.

No, she could never forget that; and yet he looked at her with such love, such devotion, that she could push it aside. She had his promise, after all.

Meg returned with a glass of water, and Christine drank it gratefully, managed a smile.

"I'm alright now," she reassured Meg. "Thank you." She put the glass down on Madame Giry's dressing table, glanced herself over in the mirror one last time. Yes, she decided, she did look beautiful, and something in her stomach fluttered at the thought of how Erik would look at her.

"Get your cloaks, then," Madame Giry said. "It's cold outside, I don't want either of you getting ill. Meg, where are your gloves?"

"Here, Maman," said Meg, brandishing them in one hand as she reached for her cloak with the other. "Christine, here are yours, and your scarf." They wrapped themselves up well, presented themselves for Madame Giry's inspection before she ushered them out of her rooms and locked the door as she followed them out.

"Let us see," begged Jammes, from the top of the stairs that led to the dormitory corridor. "Please, Madame!"

"You should be in bed," Madame Giry scolded, but she gave a nod and Christine ran up the stairs, pushed her cloak back and spun around for the girls gathered there.

"Oh, you're beautiful!" Jammes said warmly. "Just beautiful, Christine! Like a fairy tale princess." The others murmured agreement, and then Madame Giry rapped her cane once on the wooden floor and they all scurried to their bedrooms. Christine went down the stairs again, pulled her cloak close.

"Come," Madame Giry said, "we'll be late if we don't hurry." She led the way down through the opera house, and in a few minutes they had reached the back entrance, the stage door that was reserved for the performers and workers of the opera house.

Raoul was waiting for them, and Christine's sense of foreboding crystallised. This was what she had been afraid of, she realised – that Raoul would find her, try to stop her marrying Erik.

"Monsieur," said Madame Giry severely, "it is late. May I ask what you are doing here? The performance is long over."

"I was waiting for Christine," said Raoul, staring at Christine. "To stop you," he clarified, and Christine shook her head, fought back angry tears. "Madame Giry, surely you can't _condone_ what Christine is doing?" he asked then, appealing to her guardian.

"I do not think it is any of your business," said Madame Giry, and Christine was grateful for her support. "Christine has made it clear she does not wish to see you, I think. You should respect her wishes."

"We're going to be late," Meg chimed in, scowling at him.

"Mademoiselle," Raoul said, turning to her, "are you too in agreement? Has he threatened you too?"

"Raoul, stop this," Christine snapped, pushing past the Girys to confront him herself. "Didn't you hear me last night? I'm happy with Erik and I'm going to marry him." She stared at him, lifted her chin defiantly. "Raoul, you must leave me alone," she told him then, trying to persuade him. "You were warned last night. I think if you seek me out again he will not restrain himself."

Raoul frowned, shook his head. "I can't believe you're doing this willingly, Christine," he said, but he was quiet now, as if something had got through to him. "He _must _be forcing you. What is it, Christine? And what is under his mask?"

"Monsieur, really," said Madame Giry, but Christine shook her head, stepped a little closer to Raoul.

"Why do you think I'm being forced?" she asked, her voice soft. "Why are you so certain, Raoul? When I've made myself quite clear." Time was passing, and Erik would be waiting at the church – the last thing she wanted was to be late, for him to think she wasn't going to come – but she had to settle this.

"Because I know you, Christine," said Raoul, and he reached out, caught her hands in his. "And I – I love you."

Christine pulled her hand from his, felt nothing but pity as she looked at him. "Raoul, you don't know me," she rebuked. "You were right, that day you took me to lunch. I'm not the same girl I was when we were young. And…if you love me, I am sorry for you. Because you love a dream." She stepped back, made sure the hood of her cloak still covered her delicate veil. "And now I am going to my wedding, Raoul, and if you stop me, I have misjudged you."

Raoul did not stop them, and they left the opera house, walked briskly out into the harsh wind. Snowflakes danced through the air, landing on their cold faces as they huddled together and made their way to the church. It wasn't a long walk, but by the time they reached the church Christine felt it was quite long enough.

They entered the church vestibule, shut the heavy door behind them. It was scarcely warmer inside, and when Christine removed her cloak she couldn't help a shiver.

"I'd say to keep it on," said Meg, fussing at her veil, "but you look so lovely. Anyway, I'm keeping mine on."

"Just make sure you put it back on quickly," said Madame Giry, and she reached out for Christine, held her by the shoulders and looked her over. Never emotional, she now gave Christine a look that was almost tender. "Good luck, my dear."

Christine nodded, swallowed against a dry throat, and turned to enter the nave. Meg and Madame Giry followed a few paces behind, but Christine had eyes only for Erik.

He was waiting for her near the altar, looking up at the cross on the wall, but he turned when she entered, and his expression was everything she had hoped for.

It was love, and desire, and possession, and Christine hurried up the aisle to him, took his outstretched hand.

She'd seen him only a few hours before, when she had given him a bag of her belongings to take down, and he had seemed so eager, so nervous, his hands skimming across her as if he was scared to touch.

Now there was no hesitation in his expression, only anticipation, and he raised her hand to his mouth, kissed her knuckles.

"You look perfect," he murmured. "Just as I imagined." Christine flushed at the compliment, lifted a hand self-consciously to her hair. "Perfect," he assured her. He bowed slightly as Meg and Madame Giry reached the front pews, but his attention was on Christine, and it was a heady thing.

The priest arrived then, coming from the sacristy, and he came towards then, nodded at Christine. She knew him well, had been coming to this church ever since she had arrived at the opera house, and she suspected it was only her regular attendance that had convinced him to agree to such an unusual ceremony. Certainly he sent Erik an odd glance – but, Christine saw with gratitude, he did not spare the mask more than a passing look.

"Mademoiselle," he greeted. "Are you both ready?"

"Yes," said Christine softly, looking up at Erik once more. "We're ready."


	29. Chapter 29

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Erik had been almost silent as he escorted her back to his home – silent but watchful, an awed kind of watchfulness that made her feel very self-conscious. Now, as she stood by her dressing table and carefully removed her veil, she could feel his gaze on her still.<p>

He did not come further into the room than the doorway, and she turned, looked at him, moistened her lips and wondered which of them would speak first.

It was not cold here, at least – Erik had clearly made a fire before going to meet her at the church, and her little bedroom was delightfully warm, unlike the rest of the house.

Christine put the veil down on the table, reached to take the pins from her hair, but Erik moved then, came to her, stood so close behind her that she would only have to lean back a little to be pressed flush against him. He gently moved her hands away, pulled the pins carefully from her hair and dropped them one by one onto the dressing table. Then his hands were buried in her hair, stroked through her curls before landing on her shoulders.

She turned her head to look at him, smiled softly. "I am your wife now, Erik," she said. "Are you pleased?"

"You ask me that," he said, and it was clear he was thinking aloud more than speaking to her, "and you chose, willingly, to bind yourself to me…a few months ago I would have been satisfied with no more than a tender smile. I would have been grateful if you had not turned and run from me. And now…"

"And now I am yours, Erik," she whispered. "Just as you are mine." He nodded, his eyes wide and full of wonder. His hand moved then, his fingertips brushing across her bared collarbone. She leaned her head back against him to give him easier access, and he traced circles on her skin. "Erik," she said, "I'm – I'm nervous. Not scared," she hastened to assure him.

"Nervous," he repeated. "I…understand. I have never…" He shook his head, lowered his hand to her waist and pulled her against him. Her breath quickened a little at their closeness, at the way his hand was spread across her waist, her abdomen. "I have never been _allowed_," Erik tried to explain then. "This face…"

Christine turned in his arms, raised her hands to his face, the warm flesh and the cold mask. "Your face is part of you," she murmured. "And I am your wife, Erik. You are allowed." She licked dry lips, and his gaze went at once to her mouth, he stared at her as if fascinated and she wished away the blush that warmed her cheeks.

Slowly, hesitantly, as if he was afraid that at any moment she would stop him, his hands went to the line of buttons down her bodice, slipped the first one from its buttonhole. Just one, and he looked at her again, and she hated the fear so evident in his expression. He expected her to chastise him, to rebuke him, and it made her heart ache for what he had endured.

She nodded, raised her own hands to his white tie and carefully undid it, left it hanging loose around his neck. She didn't move to undress him further, knew he was still afraid she would pull away at the sight of his scars – she had wondered how extensive the scarring was, how much of him was marred permanently by the cruelty of others. But it was enough encouragement for him, and his fingers moved quickly now, deftly unfastening the rest of the buttons.

Then he slid his hands under the gown, up the line of her corset, and his fingers brushed over the thin cotton chemise that covered her breasts. She wondered, for a moment, if he could feel how her heart was pounding. But then his hands moved to her shoulders, pushed the beautiful gown down, helped her pull her arms from the sleeves. The dress fell with nothing to hold it up, crumpled on the floor, and Christine spared a thought for the wrinkles that would form.

But Erik's eyes on her were hungry, and she could not think of the dress for long.

"You are so beautiful," he said, and he stepped close to her, so close she could feel him pressed up against her. He lowered his head, kissed her, and she lifted her arms around his neck, clung to him when she thought she could no longer support himself. When he pulled away she was breathless, and he scarcely less so as he moved to unbutton her petticoat, let it join the dress on the floor.

Now she only wore her chemise, pantalettes and corset, and even the fire's warmth wasn't quite enough to suppress a shiver.

"You should get into bed," Erik said at once, and Christine shook her head, caught him by his jacket's lapels.

"I'm alright," she said. "Erik, may I – may I undress you?"

He was torn, she could see, between his fear and his desire. He wanted her – and oh, how glorious it felt to know she could at last be with him like this – but experience had taught him to be wary.

She waited, looked up at him patiently. And then he stepped away from her, and she let her hands fall, terrified now that he was going to leave her, was going to give in to the fear. But he went to the sconces set in the walls, blew out the candles, extinguished the lamp on the dressing table. All that was left was the firelight, and Christine knew it would not be enough for her to see him clearly.

But it was something, and when he returned to her, she reached up and kissed him. Then she fumbled at the cuffs of his shirt, removed the cufflinks – he took them from her, put them in a pocket, let her draw the jacket from his shoulders. It joined her own clothing on the floor, and she unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt by feel, kept her eyes on Erik's face.

He kissed her again then, one hand tangled in her hair and the other tugging at the laces of her corset. His mouth moved from hers, he pressed kisses to her jaw, her throat, his teeth scraped against her skin and she couldn't help a moan.

In moments the corset was gone, and Erik's eyes were fixed on her as he cupped her breast in a hand, fingers brushing across a nipple through the thin material of her chemise. Christine tried to breathe, clung to him, and then he picked her up, lifted her from the pile of clothing and took her to the bed. He laid her down so gently, looked at her, trailed fingers up her bare arm and across her throat.

"So beautiful," he murmured. "You are…so beautiful, Christine." He left her on the bed for a moment, but only to undress, and she watched as he discarded waistcoat and shirt, boots and trousers. Even in the flickering glow of firelight she could see enough to know she had been right – that his body was covered with scars. And when he turned to her, so hesitant, so cautious, she reached out her hands for him.

"You're too far away," she told him, unashamed. He came back to the bed, stretched out beside her and slipped his hand beneath her chemise. She shivered at his touch, gasped as he brought his hand once more to her breast. "Erik," she whispered. "Erik, Erik." She touched him, too, and he allowed her exploration, let her run her hands over his arms, his chest. In some places she could feel thick, old scar tissue, but she didn't allow her fingers to dwell in any one place.

Then he tugged at her chemise, and she raised herself a little so he could lift it over her head, baring her torso to him, her breasts, and he lowered his mouth to her breast and she gasped, arched off the bed towards him.

She had never felt this before, never felt anything even remotely close. With every tiny touch, every brush of his fingers across her skin, he brought her to somewhere she had barely been able to imagine before. And she touched him too, found places that made him gasp and clutch her, touched him in ways that would have made her blush in the light of day.

It hurt, when he pressed into her, but only for a moment, and she grasped at his shoulders, bit her lip hard, and as pain melted into pleasure again she pushed herself against him, met his thrusts, kissed him as he moved inside her.

It was only afterwards, when he was curled around her, his head resting on her stomach, that she realised his mask and wig had come off at some point while they had been making love. The mask lay just underneath her pillow, and she reached for it, rubbed her fingers over the leather and didn't bring it to his attention.

His hand moved in a lazy circle on her hip, as if he couldn't bear to stop touching her now he had been allowed to do so, and she brought her hand to his head, smoothed the thin strands of hair.

He shook against her, his breath catching, and she realised he was crying.

"What is it?" she asked in a murmur. "Erik? Aren't you happy?"

"Happy," he echoed. "Is this happiness?"

She ached for him, for the life he had known that he could not name happiness – but she knew she could not show pity. He would scorn that, would turn away from her in disgust. And in truth she did not pity him, not quite. It was more compassion, and a fervent desire to make his life different now.

"Yes, Erik," she said gently. "This is happiness." She stroked his thin hair, and he pressed his face against her, his tears wetting her skin. Then he came up the bed to kiss her, gentle and almost chaste.

"I could learn to be happy," he whispered. "I could learn this life, Christine."

"I hope so," she said, and she brushed her hand over his face, wiped away the tears that were still falling down his cheeks. "I'll help you. I want to make you happy."

"You do," he said fervently, and he propped himself up with an elbow, gazed down at her in adoration. "Oh, Christine…you are more than I ever dared dream of."

"Tell me," she coaxed, emboldened by his words and by their lovemaking. He smiled, amused at her, recognised what she was doing and didn't deny her.

"I have read books," he said, and his voice was soft, seductive. "I knew what to expect, but I never imagined how it would_ feel_, Christine. To hold you in my arms and feel your skin…to be within you, and for you to respond to me…" He trailed his fingers across her stomach, over the curve of her breast, and she shivered. "You are so eager for my touch," he murmured. "I could never have imagined that. I am…my body is…"

"Perfect," Christine said, before he could complete his sentence. She knew what he thought, and she abhorred it. His body was scarred, but it was _his_. She felt the same, she thought to herself with wonder, about his face. Distorted, deformed, and yet it was _his_ face, and he was hers – her husband, her lover. She was growing used to the sight of it, and certainly it no longer shocked her. She could not imagine it any other way, and moreover she knew she had no wish to change him, no wish that he looked whole and complete.

She meant what she said, although she knew he would not, could not believe her.

"Perfect," she repeated. "You are perfect to me, Erik." Fresh tears sprang into his eyes, and Christine felt close to crying as well as she tried to explain. "Your face…the scars…if you did not have them, you would not be _you_, Erik." He looked away from her, and she reached to turn his face back to hers, her hand gentle on his hollow cheek. "My husband," she whispered.

He shook his head, so unable to believe her, and she vowed to herself that she would _make_ him believe her, in time. He would grow to understand, as she showed her love to him every day, as she sought out his touch. He would believe she saw him so, even if he could never understand it.

She shivered then; the fire was dying down, and the room was cooling. Erik reached to pull the blankets over her at once, always so solicitous of her needs, and she curled up close to him, rested her head on his chest.

"My wife," Erik murmured, amazed once more. "My beautiful wife." He held her, his arms wrapped around her, and she loved the feel of their skin pressed together. "I think," Erik said then, thoughtful, "I could grow used to calling you that."

"Your wife?" Christine murmured, sleepy now, warm and contented in his embrace.

"My wife."

And it was possessive, the way he said it, but Christine smiled, closed her eyes and settled to sleep. She did not mind his possessiveness, not really – and it was true, she thought as she drifted closer to dreams. She was his wife, and she belonged to him.


	30. Chapter 30

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine rolled over, expecting to feel Erik – her husband, she thought with a thrill of pleasure – but found nothing but cold sheets.<p>

She frowned, sat up. The bedroom was dark, but she didn't need light to see that he wasn't there, and she felt forlorn, abandoned. She knew he slept for far fewer hours than she did, but she had not expected him to leave her on this night. On their wedding night.

She slipped from the bed, found her slippers and dressing gown by the dressing table and donned them. It was far too cold to think of wandering around Erik's home – around _their_ home, she corrected herself – without more than just her nightgown, and she hadn't worn that, had fallen asleep naked in Erik's arms.

The bedroom door was open, and a light shone from the music room; she padded down the passage, her footsteps soft, and paused in the doorway to look at Erik.

He was seated at the organ, but his hands were still and the instrument was silent. He seemed to be gazing down at the sheet music on the stand, but he wasn't working. He was not fully dressed, lacked his normal waistcoat and the robe he often wore here in his home, but the mask and wig had been replaced. She went across the room to him, and he looked up at her, almost startled.

"You weren't there when I woke," Christine murmured, and he flinched, although she hadn't intended to reprimand him. "I was worried," she added, and she hesitated for a moment, then ascended the step to his seat, sat on his lap and rested her head against his shoulder. His arms came around her, held her tight, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I did not want to wake you," he said, his voice equally soft. "I would have come back. It's early still, Christine, you should return to bed."

"I'm not tired," she said. "I would rather be with you." His breath hitched, and she lifted her head, smiled at him, bestowed a kiss. "Or do I disturb you?"

"I wasn't working," he said, and he glanced her over, saw how little she was wearing. "You'll catch cold," he chastised.

"You'll keep me warm," she said, and his eyes were full of desire as he looked at her, his gaze moving from her face down the line of her throat, the bare length of her legs, the way the dressing gown didn't quite cover the curve of her breasts.

"You cannot be real," he murmured. "You are a dream. I have dreamed you into being."

"If it is a dream, it is a good dream," Christine returned, and she kissed him again, felt him relax beneath her. His mouth was warm and gentle, and he only let her retreat when she needed to breathe, was panting a little. Then he trailed his fingers up her bare leg, pushed the dressing gown aside as he touched her.

"A good dream indeed," he muttered, and she sighed happily, leaned against him, closed her eyes to concentrate on the sensation of his touch. "I suppose one day I shall grow used to this," he said, and his hand went higher, came to rest on her hip.

"To what?" she asked, a little breathless still.

"Touching you," he said, pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Being allowed to touch you." Christine nodded, wondered if she too would grow used to it, if one day his touch would become commonplace. She couldn't imagine it, and as he undid the belt of her dressing gown, she vowed to herself that she would never allow herself to become accustomed to the way he touched her, to the sensations he created in her body.

And then he lowered his head to her breast, and she thought of nothing but his touch.

He sent her back to bed afterwards, fretted over hands and feet that were white with cold despite their activities.

"I won't allow you to become ill," he said firmly, when she would have protested. "_Faust_ premieres in barely a fortnight. Go. I'll bring you breakfast." But he kissed her before she obeyed, his stern words softened by a caress, and Christine went back to her bedroom, found the nightgown she had not worn during the night and pulled it on, climbed back into bed and admitted to herself that perhaps she had got too cold.

Erik didn't take long; within ten minutes he came to her, bearing a tray piled high with food, more than she could possibly eat.

"Drink this first," he directed, giving her a cup of tea. "Are you warming up?"

"Yes, a little," Christine said, cradled the cup in her hands and watched as he carefully placed the tray on the dressing table before going to the fireplace and raking the ash from the grate. She smiled to herself as she watched him, felt as though her heart was too big for her chest as she remembered once more that he was hers now.

He lit the fire, returned to the bed, reached to tuck her hair behind her ear. His hand lingered, fingers trailing down her cheek, and she turned her head, kissed his fingertips.

"I love you," she said, realised she hadn't said it yet today, and he smiled at her, always so pleased to hear her say it. She loved his smile, loved how it transformed his face. It was something she was sure he never showed others, something that belonged to her alone.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, sat down on the side of the bed, and she drank her tea, shrugged her shoulders.

"That I'm happy," she said. "That I love you." He nodded, but didn't seem quite satisfied with her answer. She reached out, took his hand, raised it to her mouth and kissed his palm. "That I know I made the right choice," she added softly, and tension eased, his shoulders slumped a little, as if he had been afraid she would say something different.

"I am glad," he said, almost inaudible, "that you are sure. Because I will never let you go now."

Christine shook her head, clutched his hand tightly. "And do you suppose _I_ will let _you_ go?" she demanded. "There is nothing that can come between us now, Erik. You are my husband now." She kneeled up in the bed, ignored the cup that rolled down the bedclothes, wriggled closer to him. "We are both sure," she said, stroked his cheek with cold fingers.

He closed his eyes at her touch, but he was smiling, just a slight uptilt of the corner of his mouth. It was enough for Christine; she could see that he trusted in that, at least. Trusted that she would stay with him, now she had made a commitment before God.

Erik rose then, went to the dressing table and returned with the tray, settled it on her lap. There was fruit and toasted bread, a glass of fruit juice, even her favourite pastries. She looked at him with a smile, hoped he could see her gratitude, and he nodded, sat down carefully, so as not to disturb the tray.

"Eat," he directed, and Christine reached for a plate and a pastry, paused for a moment and looked at him.

"Won't you join me?" she asked, and Erik shook his head. "You must be hungry," she said, tried to coax him, and was rewarded with another smile, but faint this time.

"You know I require less nourishment than you," he reminded her. "I will eat at lunch. Eat, Christine."

He watched her as she ate, and she thought it should have been uncomfortable, should have made her self-conscious – and in a sense it did. She was very aware of how he watched her, the way his eyes were drawn again and again to her mouth, and when she licked her thumb clean he gave a slight noise, almost desperate, that made her feel suddenly very powerful.

It was a strange feeling. She had always found Erik so powerful, so in control, and herself so caught up in his power. But of course, she reminded herself, she _did_ have power over him. She'd said as much to Madame Giry, had declared herself his moral compass. He had promised her something, and she could hold him to it. That was power – although a different sort to the kind she now exerted over him.

She finished her breakfast, drained the glass of juice, settled back against the pillows. "Thank you, Erik," she said. "You take such good care of me." He nodded, took the tray and went to take it back to the kitchen. He paused in the doorway, looked back at her.

"It is still early," he said. "What would you like to do today?"

"I should have a bath," said Christine, combed a hand through her tangled curls, thought of the deep bath in her bathroom, of the hot water that poured from the tap and seemed never to run out.

And Erik thought of it too, she could tell – he fixed his gaze on her, so intense, and she couldn't help a blush. She wrapped her arms around her knees, lowered her head so her hair fell across her face.

Erik returned to her then, parted her hair and placed two fingers under her chin, lifted her head up again.

"Don't hide from me," he entreated – not a command, although she half-suspected he would like it to be one. But it was not a command, it was a plea, and she nodded before she could really question it, before she could think that it was a little unfair for him to ask that when he hid all the time behind his mask.

He kissed her then, distracted her easily, his hand tangling in her hair. She clung to him, clutched his shoulders, tried to bring him back into the bed with her. Erik resisted, laughed softly against her mouth.

"Go and have your bath," he said. "I'll make sure the music room is warm enough for when you get out."

"Will you play for me?" Christine asked eagerly, caught his hands as he retreated. "I love to hear you play."

"I think you know by now that I would do anything you asked of me," said Erik, and he gazed at her for a long moment, made her blush again. Yes, she knew that – knew she could ask him to bring her the moon on a plate and he would try to do it for her. She also knew how dangerous that could become, if she let it. His love had an obsessive edge to it, it was clear in the way he looked at her sometimes, in the way he grew jealous over her friendship with Henri – and enraged over her few, chance meetings with Raoul.

She had not told him about the way Raoul had tried once more to dissuade her from marrying Erik, and she would not tell him about it. It would do no good, she knew – Erik would be furious, would rage and snarl and turn that anger onto Raoul, who was often enough in the opera house to be an accessible target.

So she smiled at him, nodded. "Yes," she said softly, "but all I want now is for you to play for me." She released his hands, let him pick up the tray once more and watched as he left. She stayed in bed for a moment, thinking about all that had happened over the past few hours.

Then she forced herself out of the warm bed, tiptoed across the cold floor to the bathroom, turned the taps and watched as the tub filled with water. She could think about her new life in the bath, she told herself firmly – where she could be thoroughly warmed, could enjoy relaxing in the hot water, could ease the slight ache she felt from muscles unused to the exercise of the past night.

Christine blushed again, alone in the bathroom, pulled off her nightgown and climbed into the bath. Would she ever change so much that she didn't blush? she asked herself, and hoped she would not.

For the way Erik looked at her when her cheeks were flushed, if for no other reason.


	31. Chapter 31

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"Here, Christine," said Meg, passing her the paper bag of chestnuts. "It's your turn." It had been a Christmas Eve tradition for them since Christine had arrived at the opera house, eight years before. She and the Girys spent the evening together in Madame Giry's rooms, roasting chestnuts and, when they were younger, putting their shoes in front of the fireplace. They attended midnight Mass, with those of the corps de ballet who did not go to their families for the holiday – those girls whose family lived outside Paris, generally, for the opera closed only for Christmas Day, far too short a time for anyone to travel far.<p>

Christine hadn't been sure she would partake of the tradition this year, now that she was married. But Erik had suggested she go to the Girys before she had spoken to him about it, had told her he knew how she treasured her Christmas Eve and the midnight church service. He would not attend, of course, but he had told her quite firmly that she should not forgo it just because he lacked belief, or the inclination to socialise even with Meg and Madame Giry.

But she was glad she had come; both the Girys had been pleased to see her, and it was comforting to know that some things would not change, when so much of her life had altered over the past few months.

She carefully pierced the skin of a handful of chestnuts, put them on the shovel and held it over the fire.

"Watch your skirt," said Madame Giry, not glancing up from her knitting. She was sitting on the couch, her hands busy, and seemed to be paying little attention to the girls. But appearances were deceptive with Madame Giry, Christine knew – she had a knack of seeing things that the girls would rather she did not.

"Yes, Madame," she said, and tucked her skirt tighter around her knees, watched the chestnuts as they slowly roasted.

"I _am_ glad you came," Meg confided, leaning closer to her. "I hardly see you outside rehearsal now."

"I'm glad I came too," said Christine, smiling at her friend. "But anyway, we've had rehearsal all day long, this week." The premiere of _Faust_ would take place in two days, on the day after Christmas, and Monsieur Reyer had become a fierce taskmaster over the past week, determined that everyone would know their role flawlessly.

Christine herself felt ready, and she knew Erik was satisfied with her. Their lessons had been fewer over the past week as rehearsals had intensified, and he had focused on his own opera – a work she felt she was slowly beginning to master. But she knew he attended rehearsals sometimes, hidden from sight but able to hear and see, and he had told her she would remind people why she was meant to be a prima donna.

"Yes, I know," said Meg, with a comical expression. True to her word, Madame Giry had given Meg a short solo performance in the ballet, and Meg was working hard to prove herself capable. Her complaints, Christine knew, had no foundation.

"At least Madame isn't making you practice after rehearsals," she pointed out, sent a smile to Madame Giry and caught that lady's amused expression. "I go home and often have a lesson."

"Isn't it strange, learning from him now…well, now you're married?" Meg asked, and she reached out to the chestnuts, prodded one with a practiced finger, moving it across the shovel with her nail to avoid being burned.

"Not really," said Christine. The chestnuts started hissing, indicating they would be ready in a moment. "He knows so much more about music than I do, and I don't think either of us would dream of allowing our…our relationship to interfere with the lessons. I have so much to learn still."

She gazed into the fire for a moment, thought of the difference between Erik her teacher and Erik her husband. As her husband, Erik was patient and kind, explained things to her when she didn't understand, delighted in her every expression, almost basked in her gestures of love. He was still patient as her teacher, unless he felt she wasn't trying hard enough, but he was stern, focused solely on drawing from her the sounds he knew she was capable of producing.

And yet she did not find it strange, the difference in the way he spoke and acted in their lessons and their life together.

"Have you got your costume for the masquerade ball?" Meg asked then, changing the subject.

"I'm not sure I'm going," said Christine, dragging her thoughts away from Erik to focus on the roasted chestnuts. "I'd like to spend the evening with Erik."

"You'll be expected to be there," said Madame Giry, looking up from her knitting now, frowning at Christine. "And at the party after the premiere, as well. You're the star of the opera now, Christine. That involves more than performing."

Christine's mouth twisted in a scowl, but she kept her gaze on the fire, hoped Madame Giry wouldn't see her displeasure. Madame Giry was right, of course. It would be expected that Christine would attend the ball, to talk and dance with people who were important for the opera's continued success.

It wasn't that she didn't like the ball; she had attended with Meg, chaperoned by Madame Giry, for two years now. It was a merry evening, and she had in the past enjoyed the dancing, the taste of alcohol Madame Giry had allowed them, the buoyant mood of the performers as they mingled with the rich audience members.

And yet she didn't want to dance with anyone except Erik, and she could not picture Erik at the masquerade ball, even though he would not look out of place there.

She shrugged, picked up a chestnut and started to peel it. "I'll talk to him," she said. "I know you're right, Madame, but I wish you weren't."

Meg glanced at her sidelong, took a chestnut for herself. "Well, since she is, what are you going to wear?" she asked. "I've got a _lovely_ costume, I went to see Zoé – you know, in the costumes department?" Christine nodded. "They've found me a lovely frock coat, and I'll wear trousers – oh, don't look at me like that, Christine, as if you haven't played breeches parts! And there's such a pretty top hat, with a veil, and Zoé found me the loveliest boots."

Christine laughed at Meg's enthusiasm, threw her chestnut skins into the fire. "I said I'll talk to him," she said. "I'll attend for a few hours, I suppose. I hardly need something elaborate for that." Meg began to object, and Christine shook her head. "I'll go to the costume department," she said. "I'm sure they can find something for me."

"But Maman is right, you're a star now," said Meg coaxingly, taking another few chestnuts. "You have to look simply splendid."

Christine couldn't help laughing again, shook her head at the thought of dressing to draw attention. She had always been modest in her dress, trying not to attract anyone's particular gaze – although of course when she was on stage she was stared at, watched by hundreds. But that was different somehow; when she was performing she was no longer simply Christine, she was acting a part.

She pursed her lips, wondered if she could act a part in front of all the people at the masquerade. La Daaé was a part, as much as anything she did onstage. And Madame Giry was right, she would have to attend, and at least make an appearance at the party after the premiere of _Faust_.

Erik would not like that. He had always forbidden her from such after-show events, when she had still been simply his student, had declared that she was too young to stay up so late and then, when that excuse became less valid, had reminded her that she had promised to think only of her music.

The masquerade ball was different. Two years before she had asked her Angel if she might attend, and he had been silent for long enough to discourage her before finally agreeing, as long as she kept close to Madame Giry.

But she had just been a ballet dancer before. Now she was the starring soprano, a leading role in _Faust_, and the managers would expect – no, they would _demand_ that she attend the festivities after the premiere.

"What is it, Christine?" Madame Giry asked. She set aside her knitting, looked at Christine with a piercing gaze, and Christine could not even think of holding back an answer from her foster-mother.

"Erik will not like me attending the party," she said honestly. "The masquerade is different, of course…but you know he has always forbidden me from attending parties on an opening night."

Madame Giry nodded, but she raised one eyebrow slightly, a little amused. "That is true," she said. "But you are no longer a child." She looked at Christine for a moment longer, as if waiting to see if Christine would understand.

Slowly, Christine nodded. She was no longer a child, and although she had promised, at her wedding, to obey Erik…she must talk to him about it. She must try to explain that she had to begin building a reputation as something other than a mystery. The people who were coming to the ball were powerful, and she must be careful of being too aloof.

The opposite was also true, of course – she thought, with a grimace, of Raoul. Since her wedding, two weeks ago, she had managed to avoid him altogether. She rather thought he had been avoiding her too, because he had only once come to the opera house, for a meeting with the managers. But she could not avoid him at the masquerade, at least. As the main patron for the opera, he would certainly be in attendance.

"Finish your chestnuts, girls," Madame Giry directed then. "It's nearly time for Mass. I'll go and make sure the others are ready." She rose, left the room, and Meg quickly peeled her remaining chestnut.

"What are you going to do about getting back to the lake?" she asked as Christine stood up, brushed her skirt free of ash. "You can't go through your dressing room, the girls will wonder why you're coming back to the opera house with us."

"Erik said he'd meet me outside the church," said Christine, and she took her cloak from the hook behind the door, wrapped her scarf around her neck and found her gloves. "There's a door on the Rue Scribe." She turned suddenly, reached out to help Meg up and clutched at her hand. "Don't tell anyone that," she said, almost stumbled over her words in her speed to rectify her mistake. Meg knew about the doorway in her dressing room, knew that the mirror hid a passage down to the house across the lake, but Christine knew that the less Meg knew, the safer Erik would be. "Please, Meg, I shouldn't have told you."

"Of course I won't tell anyone," said Meg, lifting her eyebrows in a manner eerily reminiscent of her mother. "Who would I tell, anyway? Everyone thinks you're living in some apartment nearby with your mysterious husband."

Christine nodded, bit her lip. "That's true," she said reluctantly. "But still, not everyonedoes believe that. There's Raoul."

"Oh, well, I'm hardly likely to tell _him_," said Meg, rolling her eyes as she pulled away from Christine, went to put on her cloak. Christine sighed, pulled her gloves on.

"Just…be careful," she requested. "Erik's so good at guarding his secrets, and I…well, I suppose I still have to learn."

Madame Giry returned then, held the door open for them to join her in the corridor. "Come along, girls," she said snappishly, as if her patience had been stretched to its limits in collecting the others who would attend the service. "Christine, blow out the candles as you come, please."

Christine hurried to obey, and then she followed Meg out into the corridor, joined the huddled throng of dancers. One or two of the younger ones looked sleepy still, and she knew Madame Giry had probably had to wake them.

She linked her arm through Meg's, returned the cheerful greetings of her friends, and followed Madame Giry down through the opera house and out into the cold night.

* * *

><p>Sorry about what happened with the chapter last night - site was being a twit, basically!<p> 


	32. Chapter 32

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>The first performance of <em>Faust<em> went wonderfully, and Christine was flushed with pleasure when she returned to her dressing room, felt she could still hear the roars of the approving audience as she had taken her bow.

"Calm down, child," said her dresser, Danielle. "You've got the party to get through yet. Here, sit down and wash your face while I unbutton you." She was a sweet woman, but just as stern in her way as Madame Giry, so Christine obeyed, washed her face in the basin that Danielle brought to the dressing table.

"I'm not going for very long," she said, when her face was free of the thick stage make-up. "My husband doesn't like me attending these things, and I can't imagine having a good time there." Danielle finished unbuttoning her gown, and Christine rose to step out of it.

"Well, that's probably just as well," Danielle said, and she lifted the dress, went to put it on the dressmaker's model she'd put in a corner of the room. "You look far too excited, I'm sure you'll work yourself to exhaustion if you have half the chance."

Christine laughed, took her own dress from the back of the chair and pulled it on. "You're probably right," she admitted. "I'll try to calm down."

But she felt full of energy, the excitement and tension of the evening still thrumming through her veins, and she couldn't resist a quick glance at the mirror. She could not see Erik, of course. The mirror only showed her own reflection. He was there, though, she knew that – could feel his gaze on her, a heady weight as she pushed her arms through the sleeves of her dress, held it in place while Danielle fastened the buttons at the back and twitched the skirts into order.

"Brush your hair, child," Danielle advised then. "Those curls! How they tangle. Will you put your hair up for this evening?"

Christine knew she probably should – she was an adult now, a married woman, and married women wore their hair up. She hadn't bothered doing so for rehearsals, or even for the few outings she'd taken. It was so much bother, she reflected, staring at her reflection. Her hair was so _difficult_ sometimes, so thick and unruly. It could be tamed, but it took time and effort that she usually didn't want to devote to something so trivial.

And besides, she thought with a blush, Erik liked her hair loose. He liked to stroke his hand through her curls, sometimes doing so almost absently, as if it had become habit.

"No," she decided at last, picked up her hairbrush and brushed her hair with firm strokes. "It's too difficult. And I'm not quite eighteen yet, nobody will care."

"Suit yourself," said Danielle easily. "Well, you won't need me, then, and your costumes are all tidied away. There's no mending tonight, thank goodness. And you're very neat on your feet – I won't catch _you_ tearing your hems!"

Christine grinned, understood the dig at Carlotta. Danielle was the senior dresser in the opera house, would usually attend Carlotta – but Carlotta had no part in this opera, and so she attended Christine.

"Thank you, Danielle," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow evening, then." Danielle nodded, glanced around once more to see that everything was as it should be, and then left the room. Christine turned at once to the mirror, held out her hands for Erik. A moment later he stepped through the mirror, came to her, took her hands and lifted one to his mouth, kissed it.

"You did very well," he said, quiet praise but enough for Christine, enough to make her smile brilliantly once more.

"Thank you," she said, and she let him pull her close, lifted her face to his for the expected kiss. He did not disappoint, and he released her hands to wrap his arms about her waist, bringing her even closer to him. "I thought I was a bit shaky at the beginning," she admitted, when they parted.

"A little," he conceded. "But that was more your acting than your singing. You'll be fine after another performance, I think. You allowed yourself to remember the audience. Remember to focus on the character and your fellow actors. Forget the people watching."

"I will," she promised. She lifted her hand, caressed his cheek, loved the way he turned his face into her hand, as if seeking more. "I'm sorry I have to go," she said softly then, and he scowled, but his ire was not directed at her. He had grudgingly agreed that she must attend the celebrations, if only for a short time – had agreed that she must fulfil her obligations to the opera house as its newest star, which meant more than simply singing on the stage each night.

"Not more than two hours," he said, reminding her of their agreement, and she nodded. Two hours would be more than enough, she was sure. She would smile and shake hands with those patrons the managers introduced her to, would have a glass of champagne – for she knew she could not avoid it – and would retire with grace, claiming the demands of performing.

"I promise," she said. "And I'll leave and go round to the Rue Scribe door, afterwards." It was something they had decided upon, to create the impression that she lived outside the opera house; at the end of the day she left through the workers' door with everyone else, walked around the opera house and went back in through the Rue Scribe door, where Erik was always waiting to take her down to their home.

He had given her a key for the door, a sign of his trust in her that she cherished.

"I'll be waiting," he said, glanced her over again, and a smile softened his face. "You will enchant them all," he murmured. Then the smile faded and he leaned down to kiss her again, the cool mask pressing against her cheek as he seemed to take possession of her mouth. He left her breathless, and she raised her hands to her flushed cheeks as he stared at her. "I am jealous of those you will meet," he murmured. "I would keep you for myself if I could."

"I am yours," she said, a necessary reminder at times. "But if you kept me entirely for yourself, I should never sing on stage – and I doubt you'd agree to that!"

His jealousy faded, his possessiveness dying down in favour of amusement. "No," he agreed. "No more than you would, my dear. Go, then. But don't be long."

He retreated through the mirror, and Christine spared a moment to make sure her hair and dress were still neat, caught up her outdoors things, and left the dressing room through the door.

The party turned out to be almost exactly as Christine had expected. Messieurs André and Firmin escorted her about the foyer and introduced her to various important personages, and Christine wasn't allowed a moment to herself, or to spend with those of her friends who were here. Henri and Heléne were there, and Henri grinned at her from across the room several times. Meg was there as well, and she stuck close – Monsieur André rather liked her, confided to Christine that she reminded him of his niece, and so she at least wasn't ushered away in favour of richer and more prominent attendees.

Raoul was there, of course, and Christine dreaded their meeting. But he was polite, bowed and congratulated her on her performance.

"Thank you, Raoul," she said softly. "I'm glad you enjoyed it." He nodded, his smile tight, and he looked down at her hand, saw the wedding ring on her finger. Christine caught her breath, waited to see what he would say. She didn't think he would make a scene, not in public like this, but she couldn't be sure.

"Congratulations again," Raoul said at last, and he nodded at the managers, drifted away to speak to someone else. Christine exhaled slowly, caught André's puzzled glance.

"I rather thought you two were friends," he commented. "I hope you haven't had a falling out, Mademoiselle – oh, I'm sorry, I do keep forgetting. Madame." His remorse was genuine as he offered Christine his arm once more, and she smiled at him.

"I think Raoul thought I would always be the little girl he remembers," she said lightly. "And now I've grown up and am happily married, I don't think he can quite bring himself to try to understand." André nodded slowly, still watching her thoughtfully. "I'm sure he won't withdraw his support for the opera," Christine added to reassure him.

"Well, I suppose I'll have to trust you on that," he said after a long moment. He led her across the foyer then, introduced her to yet another patron, and Christine smiled prettily, accepted the lady's compliments and exchanged pleasantries.

Finally the clock struck the hour, and Christine heaved a sigh of relief, turned to André and Firmin and made her excuses.

"Surely you can stay another half an hour," said André, who had become a little jovial with the free-flowing wine.

"Oh, let the girl go, André," said Firmin, whose wife had already indicated to him that she wished to leave. "Most people will be going soon, and anyway, she's met all the important people."

"Thank you, Monsieur," Christine said. He was hardly saying so with any thought for her, she knew, but she would accept all favours if it meant she was free to go home to Erik, to celebrate her success with the only person who mattered. "Bonsoir, Messieurs, Madame Firmin."

She turned and made her way through the foyer, through the crowd that was indeed thinning a little. Her cloak and gloves were in the cloakroom, and she went to retrieve them, made sure she was well protected from the cold.

"Christine?"

Christine sighed, pulled the hood of her cloak over her head. "I'm going home, Raoul," she said quietly. "I do not want to argue with you."

"I – I don't want to argue either," Raoul said, coming to a halt just before he became uncomfortably close to her. "I wanted to apologise, actually." Christine frowned at him, couldn't quite believe it. "I know you think I behave wrongly, the other week," Raoul continued. "But I need you to understand that all I want is for you to be safe."

"I am safe, Raoul," she said, and put her gloves on, fiddled with the buttons. "And you _did_ behave wrongly. I must go, I'll be late." She tried to move past him but he stopped her, caught at her arm, and she sighed loudly. "Raoul, let me go."

"I do love you, Christine," he said earnestly. "And…and I know you're married now, but I need you to know I'm here if you ever have need of me. If he ever turns on you, I can protect you."

Christine stared at him for a long moment, long enough for hope to enter his expression, and then she shook her head. He would not even try to understand, she could see now. He had to believe she was under Erik's influence, under some spell, because he could never admit that she could truly love someone other than himself.

"He will never turn on me," she said, quite truthfully. "And I shall never need you, Raoul. I'm sorry, but you must not continue thinking this way." She pulled away from him, walked briskly down the corridor and then across the entrance hall of the opera.

The night was bitterly cold, and she was glad she only had a few minutes' walk down the Rue Scribe to the little door. She pulled the key from her pocket, put it in the lock and turned it, stepped into the dark passageway. It was cold in Erik's tunnels, and would be cold in their home, but at least inside there was no wind.

And it was not dark for more than a moment; Erik lit a lamp, reached past her to make sure the door was locked, and then offered her his arm to aid her in their descent.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" he asked, teasing her, and Christine laughed, shook her head.

"Monsieur André isn't so very bad," she had to admit. "And many of the people were very complimentary. But you know I would have much preferred a quiet evening with you." She leaned against him, rested her head for a moment on his shoulder. "Anyway," she said eventually, "I won't have to go to another one until at least the beginning of February!"

"A blessing, I'm sure," said Erik dryly. "And you're not too tired?" He surveyed her, and she wondered what he could see in the lamplight – whether he could see that she was fatigued now, felt a little worn out from the constant flow of conversation. "A hot drink and bed," he decided for her. "You can sleep in tomorrow."

"Thank goodness for that," said Christine, smiling as they began to move through the tunnels and passageways into the depths of the opera house. "I'm not sure I like being a prima donna if it involves all this…socialising."

His chuckle echoed across the stone, bounced back at them from the walls, and Christine thought any other person might be frightened by it.


	33. Chapter 33

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"Erik? Erik, have you seen my slippers?" Christine asked, knocking at his bedroom door. She rarely ventured there – knew Erik valued having a space apart, despite his great love for her. He never slept there now, always joined her in her own bed, but his clothes remained there, and he sometimes retreated to his own room for a time, if Christine was busy with something.<p>

But the door was ajar, and so she didn't feel bad about bothering him. He appeared in the doorway, lacking his mask, and Christine looked up at him without a flinch, gave him a smile. He did this sometimes now, appeared to her without his familiar mask, and she thought perhaps he was testing her, waiting for what he supposed would be an inevitable flinch.

She did not flinch, she did not turn away, and after a moment his fierce expression softened in a smile.

"No, I have not, my untidy wife," he said. "Look in the wardrobe." There was a strange look in his eyes, something of anticipation, and Christine looked at him quizzically for a moment before going to follow his suggestion. Erik trailed after her, and she glanced over her shoulder at him, wondered what was going on.

She discovered the answer when she opened the wardrobe; there was a gown there that she had never seen before, a beautiful blue and pink confection trimmed with silver, and a pair of boots at the bottom of the wardrobe to match.

"Oh," she whispered. "Oh, how lovely." She turned to him, raised herself on tiptoe to press a kiss to his exposed cheek. "But Erik, what is it for?"

Erik lifted a hand to stroke through her hair, and his smile was slight. "The masquerade tonight, of course," he said. "I know you wish to go."

"I – I do, yes," Christine had to admit, turned back to the dress, touched the skirt, traced one of the silver stars that decorated it. The dress would reach past her knees, she knew, but not far past, and the boots – silver boots, to match the trim of the gown – would be revealed. It was a daring gown, but no more revealing than anything she had worn on stage, after all. Indeed, it was more conservative than many of the ballet outfits she had worn.

But she looked at Erik again, bit her lip. "But…I don't wish to go alone," she said hesitantly, unsure what his reaction would be. "The only man I want to dance with is you, Erik."

His nod was slow, approving. "Good," he murmured. "I…that is good to hear, Christine." He turned away from her then, hid his face from her as if suddenly recalling that he had taken his mask off. Christine bit her lip but said nothing. He was growing more used to letting her see his face – was almost forcing himself to grow more used to it – but then he would remember, would visibly remind himself that she should not look upon him, shied away from her.

But Christine had learned to be patient, would continue to be patient.

"Anyway," Erik said then, clearing his throat awkwardly, "as it happens, I was thinking of attending myself." Christine stared at him, startled, and he glanced at her, smirked at whatever he saw in her expression. "It is, after all, a masquerade," he reminded her. She nodded mutely, had thought the same thing herself but had never dreamed that Erik would attend something so…so public. He was not a sociable man, after all – his life, his face, had not allowed him to be so.

He was amused then, something of mischief in his expression as he turned back to face her properly. "I attended last year," he said, teasing her. "I'm hurt you don't recall our dance."

Christine's mouth opened, but she couldn't find the words. Erik in a playful mood was rare enough, but could he truly be serious? Surely she would remember dancing with him, even if she had not known who he was. She had danced with several men last year, and of course they had all worn masks…

She frowned up at him, shook her head. "I don't remember," she had to admit, and the thought made her sad. She wanted to remember, but it was a year ago, and so much had happened since then – the night remained in her mind as a whirl of pleasure, dancing and celebrating but nothing that she felt indicated Erik's presence.

Erik was still amused, not downcast by her lack of memory, and he took her hand, placed the other on her hip, and she lifted her free hand automatically to his shoulder.

"I wore red," he murmured, "and you wore white." Christine closed her eyes, let him guide her steps as they danced to the music in his mind, scoured her memory of last year's masquerade ball.

At last she smiled, opened her eyes again to look at him, found him looking at her with wonderment and for a moment she paused, drank in his awe, his love.

"I remember," she said then. "I thought you were very strange." He tilted his head slightly, inquiring, and Christine let her eyes close again, hummed as he brought her a little closer to him. "You said barely a word to me as we danced," she recalled.

"I was afraid you would recognise my voice," Erik told her. "But I could not resist the opportunity." He released her hand, clasped her about the waist and kissed her, so soft and gentle, as if he still couldn't believe that he was allowed this. "I wanted to dance with you as other men did," he murmured into her mouth then. "To be as other men were, if only for one night." His lips moved then, down her neck, and she let her head fall to one side to give him more access.

"I wish I had known it was you," she whispered. "I feel cheated." She raised a hand to his face, caressed the curves and hollows of his cheek. "Do you mean it, Erik?" she asked him. "Will you come to the ball with me?"

"Yes," Erik said eventually, when at last he brought his lips, his tongue, from her skin. "For a time, at least. I have business to conduct with the managers, later on." Christine couldn't suppress a shiver at that, and he ran his hands down her arms, clasped her hands and squeezed gently. He would not change his plans for her, she knew, but she could be reassured that he had planned nothing…truly dreadful.

"But for a while, I shall come with you," he said. "Madame Giry and her daughter will of course know the truth, but to all others I shall simply be…your husband." He kissed her once again, as if he couldn't help himself, and Christine clung to him, wrapped her arms about him and tried to convey her pleasure, her gratitude.

They parted, and Christine could not contain a laugh of joy. Erik was used to her laughter now, knew it was not directed at him, and so he did not pull away as he once would have done. He released her, waved a hand at the dress in the wardrobe.

"You have only a few hours," he reminded her. The masquerade would begin at eight and continue all night; it was half past five now, and Christine knew she would have to hurry to be ready. "And you must eat before we go," Erik added then. "You're not used to the wine that will no doubt be readily available."

"What will you wear?" Christine asked, already turning back to the wardrobe, admiring once more the gown Erik had procured for her. She wondered, fleetingly, how he had done so. He did venture out to the shops and the market but only in darkness, with a hat pulled low over his mask. He did so only out of necessity, she knew, to acquire food and other essentials. He might have placed an order with a seamstress, she supposed – and then dismissed the curiosity as unimportant. The dress was beautiful, and she knew it would fit; Erik was well aware of her measurements, as he had demonstrated before.

"You'll see," was his answer, and he left her then, went back to his own bedroom, left her to prepare for the ball.

Christine hurried to the bathroom, stripped down to her undergarments and washed quickly, shivering in the chilly room. She returned to the warmer bedroom, brought the dress from the wardrobe and laid it carefully on the bed.

She could not wear her chemise, she realised as she looked at the beautiful dress. In fact she didn't think she could even wear a corset – the dress was cut low enough, both at the front and back, that a corset would show. She reached out, felt the bodice of the dress; it was stiff, boned like a corset, and she nodded, a little relieved. Some of her friends in the corps de ballet could escape wearing a corset, but she was not one of them.

The dress was beautiful, and she looked at it properly now, the blue bodice trimmed with silver, fading into pink at the waist and skirt. The skirt was wide, held out by several layers of tulle petticoats beneath. The skirt buttoned at the back, separate from the bodice, which was laced at the back like a corset. There were no sleeves, but beaded straps that would rest on her shoulders.

Christine went to retrieve the boots as well, delighted in them, grinned happily to herself. The outfit was less modest than anything she might have chosen for herself – she suspected Erik wanted to show her off, to make his claim on her clear for all the attendees of the ball – but the colours were what she would have chosen, and the style was delightful.

There was a mask as well, of course, also in silver – a mask on a stick, and Christine wondered for a moment if Erik had done that deliberately. But of course he had; he had told her before that he did not like her face to be hidden. A small headdress finished the ensemble, a wire frame decorated with a crescent moon and silver stars to match those on the skirt.

Christine took the headdress to her dressing table, sat down and brushed her hair thoroughly. She would leave it loose, both for Erik's sake and her own – she dreaded the task of putting it up, could almost never manage it by herself and hardly thought she could ask Erik for help. Once it was tangle-free she pinned back the front part of her hair, clipped it back firmly so it would stay out of her face. She settled the headdress on her hair, made sure it was secure, then rose and stripped out of her underclothes.

She found in her wardrobe the underwear the dancers wore beneath their tutus, enough covering for modesty but not so much that it interfered with their costumes. Her legs would be bare, but she was used to that – and she reminded herself, when her cheeks warmed, that she would in some senses be playing a part on this night as on any other in the theatre.

La Daaé. Yes, she could play that part.

The skirt was easy enough to pull on and fasten, and she allowed herself a moment to dwell in the way it swished about her as she spun around. The bodice, however, posed a problem, and Christine would have no choice but to ask for Erik's help.

He came quickly at her call, his gaze dropping rather lower than her face until she brought the bodice up to its proper position with a roll of her eyes.

"Lace me up?" she asked, turning her back to him.

"I would rather undress you," he murmured, stepped close to her, ran cold fingers up her spine and made her shiver. But he tugged at the laces, tightened them until the bodice fitted perfectly. Then he spun her around, held her at arms' length and looked her over. "Perfect," he declared. "All eyes will be on you, tonight."

"I only want you," Christine said simply, knew her words would give him pleasure, and he smiled at her, gazed at her with that adoring gaze that she had grown to love so much.

"Since you are my wife," he said at last, "that is just as well." He reached out to her, brushed his fingertips across her cheek as gently as if she were made of glass. "My wife," he repeated, his voice soft. "My Christine…my angel…" His eyes were wide as he looked at her now, his fingers touched her lips. "You are the Angel of Music," he told her, "not I."

Christine shook her head, wanted to forestall the words she was sure he was about to censure himself with, but Erik's fingers on her lips prevented her from speaking.

"Yes," he said, adamant. "To think there was a time when I did not have you here! When you were not mine. And now…"

Christine took his hand, clasped it between hers. "And now we are together," she said. "And we are happy." It was almost a question, but not for her own sake; she knew he was happy, could see it more and more every day, but she wasn't sure _he_ always realised it.

But he nodded, his sobriety faded into a smile. "Yes, my Christine," he said tenderly. "We are happy."


	34. Chapter 34

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Christine laughed breathlessly as Erik escorted her to a seat set in an alcove off the grand foyer of the opera house. They had just finished a dance, a whirling thing that only the dancers of the opera house had really succeeded at, and she was glad for a moment to sit.<p>

Glad too that Erik was with her; she was enjoying the evening far more for his presence, and she leaned close to him to tell him so.

"I'm afraid I shall have to leave soon," Erik said, his gaze focused on the dancing that continued in the foyer. His eyes were the only part of his face she could see – he wore a mask that covered his whole face, even his mouth. "I have a few preparations to make for my business with the managers," he added, when she made an inquisitive noise.

"Alright," said Christine, refusing to rise to the bait and ask what his business would involve. That it was about his opera, she had no doubt; he had declared, a few days ago, that she had mastered her part and so it was time for the cast to begin rehearsals. "Will you be coming back?"

"In a sense," said Erik evasively, and Christine reached out, touched his sleeve to make him look at her. "Don't worry," he assured her then. "Nobody will be harmed."

"That isn't the only thing I'm worried about," Christine retorted, wished she could see his face, see what expression he wore. She was worried about _him_, about what the reactions would be when he appeared – for she was sure he was planning to appear in full Opera Ghost guise, to make an entrance and make his demands before everyone.

He took her hand, brought it to the mouth of his mask. "I shall be fine," he said, and his tone was warm, appreciative. He was slowly beginning to understand her desire to care for him, her need for his safety, and she thought he was beginning to appreciate it.

"You'll be alright?" he asked, rising, and she nodded.

"Of course," she said. "Meg's around here somewhere, and Madame Giry." She stood up also, smiled at him. "I'll be fine. Go." He gave her one last look, nodded, and disappeared through the mass of people in the foyer. He would reappear later, after his preparations – whatever they might be – were complete.

In the meantime, Christine would endeavour to enjoy herself without him. She surveyed the crowd, tried to find Meg but couldn't see her friend among the dancing couples. Nor was she by the long refreshment tables set up at one side of the foyer, when Christine ventured there to search.

But someone else was there – Raoul, lacking a mask, a half-empty glass of wine in his hand. Christine faltered, glanced around to see if she could escape gracefully, but Raoul had seen her, put the glass down on the table and approached.

"Good evening, Christine," he said, and Christine forced a smile, fiddled with her mask.

"Hello, Raoul," she said softly. "Are you enjoying the evening?"

"Yes, it's…dazzling," said Raoul, glancing around at the variety of colourful costumes. The opera house had done itself proud; everyone wore a wonderful costume, and if a few articles of clothing were recognisable from past productions, Christine was sure the audience members here tonight would not see it.

"We like to put on a show," she said. A passing black-clad figure caught her eye – Madame Giry, who gave her a sharp glance and then hovered nearby. Christine gave her a brief smile, knew Madame Giry would help her if she needed to put distance between herself and Raoul.

"I saw…_him_," said Raoul eventually, and Christine pressed her lips together to keep from making a retort, stared out at the whirling dancers. Somebody was dressed in a monkey costume, she saw, holding cymbals – had Erik created his music box from the costume, she wondered absently, or had the costume been created from the music box?

"Why shouldn't my husband come with me?" she asked at last, when she felt she could trust herself not to grow angry, not to react poorly to whatever attack Raoul was about to launch. "Why should I not spend an evening at a party with him?"

"Because he's –" Raoul cut himself off, stepped closer to her. "Because he's a monster," he completed, hissing the words. "A criminal even if only for the blackmail."

Christine whirled back to face him, to _glare_ at him. "Do not speak so of my husband," she snapped, utterly incensed. To call Erik a criminal was one thing – she knew he had committed crimes, could not deny that charge – but to call him a monster, to her face, was something she could not stomach. "How dare you say those things to me?"

"Hush, Christine," said Madame Giry, coming to her rescue, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Remember where you are," she murmured, and Christine lowered her head with a blush, aware that people nearby had heard her raised voice. "Come," Madame Giry said then, loud enough for others to hear, "you need some fresh air. Come with me, Christine."

She ushered Christine through the crowds, allowing nothing to stop her, up the grand staircase, through a door and down a hallway. They finally reached privacy and a window, and Madame Giry flung it open, pressed Christine close to it and made her inhale the cold air.

"Breathe in," she ordered. "And for goodness sake, calm down!"

Conditioned to obedience through long years, Christine closed her eyes and breathed, measured inhalations and slow exhalations, and the air was bitterly cold, made the hot anger fade better than anything else could.

"Thank you, Madame," she said at last, when her temper was under control and she could recognise how poorly she had behaved. "I – I'm sorry."

"What on earth did he say to upset you so?" Madame Giry asked, pulling the window shut.

"He – he called Erik a monster," Christine whispered, and felt the anger rise again, pressed her hands to her eyes as she pictured Erik's face, his expression on those occasions when he referred to himself as such. "How dare he?" Christine asked then, dropped her hands and stared helplessly at Madame Giry. "What does he know of Erik? Nothing. Nothing!"

"Calm yourself, Christine," said Madame Giry, raising a hand, and Christine subsided again, felt hot, angry tears pricking at her eyes.

"Madame, I have spent these past weeks…no, these past _months_ trying to show Erik that he is _not_ a monster," she said at last. "He is not – he is more than his face, Madame. And for Raoul – Raoul, who barely knows him! – for him to just fling that word about as if it were natural…I cannot bear it!"

"Where is Erik?" Madame Giry asked sharply then. "Did he hear?"

"No…no," said Christine, shook her head and turned to the window, pressed her forehead against the cool glass. "He said he had preparations to make. He intends to speak to the managers tonight." She turned back to Madame Giry in time to see her look of concern, and Christine shook her head once more. "He will not harm anyone," she whispered. "He has an opera…he wishes it to be performed here, after _Faust_ is over."

Madame Giry pursed her lips, offered a shrug. "Well, you know him best," she said. "Do you think you're alright to go back down? I don't want to leave the girls without a chaperone for long."

"Yes, I think so," said Christine, lifted a hand to check her headdress was still firmly secured, brushed her other hand over her skirt to make sure she was still presentable. "I'm sorry, Madame," she said again then. "I should have controlled myself better."

"The Vicomte should have worked out that you do not desire his company," Madame Giry retorted, an unusually fierce scowl on her face. "He will get himself into trouble if he continues like this."

Christine could not deny it; if Erik discovered that Raoul was still approaching her – if he discovered that Raoul had upset her so much – he would take action. She had no doubt about it. There would be…accidents. Threats. He would act to protect her, and to make it clear to Raoul that she belonged to Erik.

But she would not tell him, and she knew she could trust Madame Giry to keep quiet about it as well – not that she was in the habit of conversing with the Opera Ghost anyway, Christine reminded herself as she followed Madame Giry back towards the celebrations. Raoul would grow disinterested eventually, and she knew he was at least a little afraid of Erik. That would help, she was sure.

Madame Giry left her once they were back in the foyer, went to check on the girls she was chaperoning, and Christine kept a sharp watch for Raoul as she wandered around the outskirts of the dancing. She didn't want to speak to him, whatever he might have to say.

She found Henri and Heléne talking to Meg, joined them eagerly when they waved her over.

"Are you alright?" Meg asked her at once. "I saw Maman taking you out. What happened?"

"Oh, it was nothing," said Christine, shaking her head. "I'll tell you later, alright?" Meg pursed her lips but nodded acceptance. "Are you having a good time?"

"Good enough," said Heléne, and she glanced around. "Carlotta's being a pest," she confided, when she was sure that lady wasn't close by. "Throwing her weight around like anything. She's been telling the most outrageous stories about you to anyone who'll listen."

Christine shrugged, tried to feel as unconcerned as she pretended to be. "Carlotta says lots of things," she said. "I'm building my reputation, and I won't let her harm me."

Henri nodded, smiled in evident approval. "Thick skin," he said, and Christine smiled, nodded at him, remembered their first conversation. "Has your husband gone?" he asked then. "It's still early."

Christine began to reply, but cut herself off as one of the violins gave a screech. The music stopped, the dancing ceased as everyone turned to stare at the orchestra – and then at the figure who had appeared at the top of the grand staircase.

It was Erik, of course, but he had changed, was dressed extravagantly as Red Death, and Christine marvelled for a moment at how quickly he had donned the costume. The skeletal mask covered his face, he held the score for _Don Juan Triumphant_ in his hands, and he swept his gaze from one side of the foyer to the other.

"Good evening, messieurs," he said at last, his voice ringing out clearly in the silence that had greeted his arrival. He addressed the managers, stood in horror near the foot of the staircase. "Have you missed me?" He chuckled, a grimly amused sound, and his eyes found Christine for the briefest of moments. She couldn't help herself, began to make her way closer, aware that Meg was trailing close behind.

"I have written you an opera," Erik announced then, threw the book down; André caught it, stumbled back a pace just as Christine reached him, and she saw his white face as he stared up at the Opera Ghost. "_Don Juan Triumphant_," Erik continued, and once more he glanced at her, looked away before anyone except herself had time to register the object of his gaze. "I advise you to comply," said Erik then, his voice silky and threatening, and even Christine couldn't quite suppress a shiver. "My instructions should be clear."

He looked at her once more, reached out his hand as if to grasp her, and Christine felt dizzy as she obeyed his silent command, stepped forward, onto the first step of the staircase and then the second. Close enough to see his delight at the reactions he had gained, the pleasure he took in playing the Opera Ghost.

She felt the heavy weight of the people watching at her back, stared up at him and waited for her cue, whatever it might be.

"You will sing for me," Erik commanded – the Ghost commanded – and Christine nodded. It was all the answer she could give, but it was enough, and Erik brought his hand down sharply, created one of his impressive fireballs, and disappeared.

Hands reached for her at once, voices clamoured in her ears, but Christine did not feel them, did not hear them. Erik had presented his opera, and somehow it must be performed.

Somehow she must help him persuade the managers.


	35. Chapter 35

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Erik met her at the Rue Scribe entrance, dressed once more in his accustomed attire, and as soon as the door was locked behind them he caught her up in his arms, brought his mouth to hers as if he would devour her, pressed one cold hand to her shoulder and tangled the other in her hair.<p>

Christine lifted her hands to his shoulders, made a startled sound when he pressed her against the wall, covered her body with his own. The sound was swallowed in his mouth, his hand slid down her arm and across her throat, down to rest over the swell of her breast.

She didn't think she had ever seen him like this, so – so lustful, so intent on his desire that he discarded all his usual insecurities and hesitancy. Her eyes slid closed as he lowered his mouth to her neck, licked and sucked at the spot he knew made her feel as though she was melting – she did not complain of it, she thought hazily, but they were in the cold passage, the stone at her back was hard and uncomfortable.

"Erik," she murmured, and she brought her hand to his head, tried unsuccessfully to make him listen to her. "Erik…"

"Do not deny me," he whispered, and he looked at her then, his eyes sharp in the dim light from his lantern. "Do not, Christine."

"I don't," she said at once, soothed him. "But not here, Erik – I'll get too cold." Appealing to his protective instinct might, she supposed, remind him that they had a comfortable home below – and indeed it did, for he nodded, looked a little ashamed of himself. Christine kissed him then, tried to show that she shared in the fire that burned between them, and when they parted he nodded again, accepted it.

"Down, then," he said, sparing only a few words. "Come quickly."

And quickly they went; Erik grasped her hand and almost dragged her along, as he had not done since that first night he had taken her down to his home. But this time Christine did not hesitate, did not stop to look back the way they had come, and although his hand around her wrist was firm, his pace fast, he was still careful to make sure she could keep up, made sure she didn't trip or stumble.

He kissed her again when they reached the boat, kissed her feverishly, as if he would never be able to have enough of her, and Christine pressed herself against him, clutched at his jacket. His hand tangled in the laces that fastened her bodice, and she shook her head, pulled away from him, was almost ashamed to hear how her breaths came in pants.

"No," she said, and he growled, reached for her once again. "Just across the lake," she said, her words stumbling over each other in her haste to speak. She could _feel_ every inch of her skin, and her dress felt too tight, too constricting. She ached for him as much as she knew he ached for her – but in a few moments they would be home, they could be in the bed, and it would be so much more comfortable.

She stumbled into the boat before he could reach for her again, turned and looked up at him.

"Just a few minutes more," she coaxed him. "Come, Erik." It took a moment, but he nodded, stepped into the boat and caught up the pole. They crossed the lake, and Christine tried to calm her breathing, watched for their approach to the far shore. When they arrived, she reached out to loop a rope through the iron ring on the lakeshore, fastened the knot the way Erik had shown her.

He caught her up in his arms, carried her out of the boat and into the house, barely paused to slam his hand against the switch that lowered the portcullis. The music room was still warm, although the fire was dying – and Erik placed her down on the low sofa, knelt over her and kissed her, a hand at her breast.

"If – if you tear my dress," Christine managed, when his mouth moved from hers, down to lick and suck at a spot beneath her jaw, "I shall be cross." Erik chuckled, and the feel of it reverberated through his body as he pressed close to her. But he listened, he obeyed her unspoken command, and retreated to let her up, to let her turn away from him so he could unlace her bodice. She reached down to unlace her boots, just enough to pull her feet from them, and then Erik's impatience overtook him again.

In moments she was bare, and he undressed himself with haste, left his clothing with hers on the floor beside the sofa. He covered her with his body, it felt like her skin would burn where he touched her, and she matched his urgency with her own.

Afterwards, cradled between Erik and the back of the sofa, Christine closed her eyes and rested her head against his chest.

"My Erik," she murmured, contented. "You were magnificent tonight."

"Hmm. I'm glad you think so." He stroked a hand over her hair, down to rest on her hip. "I do so enjoy scaring the fools who work here," he murmured, and Christine opened her eyes, smiled at him.

"I could tell," she said. "I've never seen you so –" She cut herself off, hesitant, and Erik looked at her, frowned a little. If she held back, she knew, he would assume the worst, and so however he took it, she must say her thought. "So unafraid to touch me," she said at last. "So often you still think I will refuse you. No, don't deny it," she added quickly, when he made to speak. "I know you do. You're so terribly afraid still, Erik."

"Do not blame me for it," he muttered, and although he did not turn away, he could not look at her. Christine lifted a hand to his cheek, stroked it gently.

"I do not," she said, reassured him. "Not at all, Erik. But that does not mean I do not hope you will come to be sure of me." She lifted her head, brought her mouth to his and kissed him gently. "I will never flinch at your touch," she murmured then. "I will never refuse you."

"I cannot trust in it," Erik said eventually. "Not…not yet. In my whole life nobody has ever willingly accepted my touch – certainly not after seeing my face. And you…" He shook his head, closed his eyes. "If you knew how I ache for you," he whispered. "Constantly, Christine."

"I know it, Erik," she said back, her voice just as soft as his, and she did not blush. "And one day – one day you shall trust me." He nodded, slow and hesitant – he wanted to agree, she saw, wanted that day to come, but couldn't believe it would. She would make it happen, she vowed to herself. One day he would know he could touch her without being afraid of a flinch or a blow.

"We will talk of other things," she declared then, refused to let him dwell on his insecurities. "Tell me how you will make the managers put on _Don Juan_, Erik."

He smiled then, knew what she was doing, but he allowed it. "There are two options," he said. "One is simpler, but I suspect will earn your disapproval. I can simply threaten them, and ensure accidents happen, until they agree."

Christine pursed her lips. It was not a plan she approved of, but she had said to Erik that she would not ask him to stop his games, his mischief, and she would not go back on her word.

"What is the other option?" she asked, and rested her head once more on his chest, traced the line of a scar on his stomach for a moment.

"It would…expose you to gossip," he said slowly, stroking her hair once more. "But if you were to present the managers with a copy of my deeds of ownership…they would see that they have no choice." Christine said nothing, and her thoughts jumbled together as she tried to understand what he meant, what this plan would mean for her. If she showed the managers that Erik – her husband – owned the opera house, they would know that she was married to the Opera Ghost…and that knowledge would not be kept secret for long.

"Of course, Raoul already knows," she murmured, felt him tense at the name but offered no apology. It was a fact, and one he already knew. "And…and after all they do not have to know everything, I suppose…"

"No," said Erik, relaxing a little. "No, we would fabricate a story. Your husband, the eccentric owner of the opera house." She smiled at the description, knew it applied more than he would admit. "As for my salary," he went on, "what they call blackmail is simply my fee. It's written into their contract, for my artistic and musical direction. I have designed many of the sets and costumes, as well as instructing Reyer in casting decisions."

Christine could not help but be relieved at that. Raoul had called Erik a criminal for his blackmail if nothing else, but if Erik spoke the truth – and she had no reason to believe he would lie to her – it was nothing of the kind, and Erik was breaking no law.

An eccentric, she thought, who amused himself by playing minor practical jokes on the cast, and by creating a falsehood about an opera ghost.

"Do you approve?" Erik asked her then, his tone light but his anticipation clear. "As I said, you would become a subject for gossip, at least until the novelty wears off."

"Yes," Christine said, "I know I would be. But…but I think I could bear it, Erik." Yes, she thought she could bear it. It was the safer choice – presented with proof of his ownership, and of his right to the monthly salary, the managers could not go to the police, as she was afraid they might if Erik threatened and blackmailed them into obeying him. It would be far safer for him, and if she could help ensure his safety, she would.

She yawned then, couldn't help it, and Erik chuckled, low and deep in his chest.

"Bed, my wife," he said, and rolled away from her, off the couch, rose and bent to carry her in his arms. "Time enough to decide tomorrow."

Christine wrapped her arms around Erik's neck, clung to him as he lifted her easily, carried her down the passage to her bedroom. He laid her out on the bed, drew the blankets over her and then left her momentarily to extinguish the lights in the other room.

He returned swiftly, joined her in the bed, and Christine curled up close to him, stifled another yawn. It was late now, long past midnight, and although there was no performance on New Year's Day, she would no doubt be called to attend a meeting by the managers following Erik's appearance at the masquerade ball. She should go to sleep, and yet she lay in quiet contentment, traced a pattern on his skin and relished the feel of him against her.

"I meant it," she murmured. "I think I could bear the gossip, if it meant your opera would be performed."

Erik was silent for a while, his arms tight around her, and Christine was almost asleep before he spoke.

"I know how you hate it," he said, voice low and soft. "You hate to be talked about. You hate the gossip. Would you truly be willing to accept that, for my sake? You have given up so much for me already."

Christine scowled, lifted her head to look at him, startled back into wakefulness. "I have given up nothing," she declared. "Why would you say such a thing?"

Erik looked at her sadly, stroked a hand up her bare arm. "You could have had another," he reminded her. "Someone without…" He gestured to his face; he wore his mask still, although he would take it off soon, she knew, because it was too uncomfortable to sleep in. "A home above ground…you should be in the sunlight, Christine."

"I don't _want_ another," said Christine, tried to be patient with him, knew he only spoke so from his own insecurity. "Erik, I love _you_, and I have sacrificed nothing to be with you. I can have the sunshine whenever I wish – you hardly keep me prisoner here!" She bit her lip, looked at him, raised her hand to caress his cheek. "I have everything I want, Erik. Nobody else could give me what you do." She eased his mask off, cast it aside, and he did not stop her. "I love you," she whispered, "and I love your face, because it is _yours_ and you are my husband."

"My wife," he said, and he smiled a slight smile. "You speak so prettily."

"It is the truth," Christine insisted. "I'll take the deeds to the managers tomorrow, Erik. I don't care what anyone says about me, as long as I have you." She curled closer around him, rested her head on his chest. "I love you."

"And I love you, my brave Christine," Erik said. "Now go to sleep."

Christine obeyed, closed her eyes and drifted easily into sleep.


	36. Chapter 36

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>"Ah, Mademoiselle Daaé, do come in."<p>

"Thank you, Monsieur André," said Christine demurely, allowing him to usher her into the office. He closed the door as she regarded the occupants: the managers, of course, and Carlotta and Piangi. Raoul was there too, and Madame Giry. That would make things simpler, she told herself – it was possible, after all, that Raoul had already told them all about her marriage.

"Have a seat, Mademoiselle," said Firmin, gesturing carelessly at a chair.

"It's Madame," Christine corrected, shared a glance with Madame Giry before taking the proffered seat. She did not miss the way Raoul looked at her – hurt, but mostly suspicious. Christine clutched the papers in her hand a little harder, then smoothed out the creases. "You wanted to see me, messieurs?"

"You're behind all this!" Carlotta said, before either of the managers could speak. "You – somehow, I know it's you! You don't even have the voice to sing this – this – it isn't even music!" She flung down her copy of the score, and Christine glanced down, confirmed that it was indeed Erik's opera, and then looked back at Carlotta, silent. Madame Giry came to stand beside her, put a hand on her shoulder, and Christine glanced up at her, offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

"You've secured the largest part," Firmin told her, a sour note in his voice. "Monsieur le Vicomte, really, I don't see that we have any choice but to comply."

"It's madness," Raoul said, his eyes fixed on Christine. "But you may be right. This man – he will stop at nothing, it seems." He seemed to be waiting for her to react, for the anger she had displayed last night, but Christine looked back at him, said nothing. She had the advantage here, although he didn't know it, wouldn't know it until she revealed what she held in her hand.

"What can he do?" Carlotta demanded rudely. "Nothing!"

"He can do many things," Madame Giry snapped. "As you well know, Signora." Her fingers were tight on Christine's shoulder, but Christine didn't pull away; she looked down at the papers in her lap, then looked up at Raoul, at Carlotta and at the managers.

"Excuse me," she said softly, "but I think you should read these." She lifted the papers, stretched her hand out to André, and he frowned at her, took the papers and glanced them over. She could see the moment he realised what the papers contained – his expression froze, his eyes wide and mouth open, and then he turned to Firmin, stuttered something and thrust the papers at him.

"What is it, André?" Firmin demanded, took the papers and perused them. He paled, glanced up at Christine, shook his head. "This is preposterous," he said. "What sort of a joke is this?"

"It's not a joke, Monsieur," said Christine, watched as Raoul went to look over Firmin's shoulder.

"What is it?" he asked. "'Ownership of the Opera Populaire is…'" He trailed off, looked up at Christine in shock. "He _owns_ it?" he demanded of her. "This – this can't be real!"

"Who?" Carlotta crowded Raoul out of the way, tried to snatch the papers from Firmin's hand. "What is it? Let me see!"

"It's a copy of the deed of ownership for the opera house," said Christine. Madame Giry's fingers were painfully tight now, and Christine looked up at her, saw that Madame Giry had never even suspected something like this. "He's owned it for quite a few years," she went on.

"But – but – he is a man, then," stammered Carlotta, and she went to a chair, sank down into it. Piangi went to her, took her hand, and Carlotta was so taken aback that she allowed it. "Not a ghost?"

"Of course he isn't a ghost," said Raoul snappishly, and turned back to Christine, stepped towards her until he was just close enough to scowl down at her. "What is this, Christine?"

"What you see," said Christine, trying not to feel intimidated by having to look up at him, craning her neck. She wanted to stand, to create distance between them, but refused to show her discomfort. "He owns the opera house." She looked beyond him, to André and Firmin. "I'm sorry," she said, gentle, "but I'm afraid you have no choice."

"But – but who is he?" André demanded, quite bewildered. "Why on earth pose as a ghost, for heaven's sake?"

"Ask her," said Raoul, his words clipped, and he gestured at Christine. "She knows. She – she's married to him."

"What?" Firmin rounded on her, scowled fiercely. "Is this true?"

Christine lowered her eyes, thought about her words carefully before speaking. "My husband owns the opera house," she said at last. "He…amuses himself by playing up to the superstitions that always float around places like these." She looked up, firm and defiant. "People chose to believe him a ghost, Monsieur," she said, and nobody spoke. "It is eccentric, I know," she said eventually, when the silence was becoming unbearable. "But he is a genius. And he does own the opera house – you cannot refute that."

"But – but we signed –" André stuttered, and Christine shook her head.

"A contract only, Monsieur," she said. "To manage the opera. Not to own it." She reached up to cover Madame Giry's hand with her own, displaying her wedding ring prominently. "Even his salary is written into that contract," she said. "I'm sorry, but you have no choice."

"Christine, why are you helping him?" Raoul asked, and he sounded so helpless, looked at her with an almost pathetic look on his face. "He's fed you lies, can you not see that?"

"It's not lies," Christine said at once, and she rose, frowned at him. "I have told you nothing but the truth." She turned to Firmin, stretched out a hand to him in entreaty. "Monsieur, I am not lying," she said. "And neither is he. He wishes us to perform his opera – will you refuse?"

"I – I don't see how we can, Firmin," murmured André. "If what she says is true…"

"It's a conspiracy," said Carlotta, stood up, came towards Christine and shook a finger in her face. "I knew something was going on here! Your husband, he has a vendetta against me! _He_ is the reason for all this!"

"Si, it is him," agreed Piangi, staunchly backing up his lover. "He has discredited Carlotta, made her to croak like a – a toad." Carlotta turned to direct a scowl at him, and he raised his hands defensively, backed away a step.

Christine said nothing – she could not deny it, could not protest because Erik _did_ have a vendetta against Carlotta. He loathed her, loathed the ruin she had created for her voice, and he had certainly done everything within his power to make sure Christine replaced her as leading soprano. There was no conspiracy, of course, but things were complicated enough without Christine trying to refute only part of what Carlotta had said.

"He certainly is the reason for it all," said Raoul, but he was shaking his head. "I – are you sure these documents are real, Firmin?"

"As sure as I can be," Firmin said, and he went to the desk, put the papers down, turned to look once more at Christine. "But Mademoiselle – Madame – you must explain more to us. Your husband, he must be quite mad. Why should he play at being a ghost? And the notes – those notes!"

"As I said, Monsieur," said Christine quietly, "he is a genius. Who can say why a genius does the things he does? But he has never harmed anyone, not really. And he has been helping to make the opera house great for years. Ask Monsieur Reyer – he will tell you that."

"There is no need, I can tell you the same," said Madame Giry, stepping beside Christine, supporting her once more. "He has been perfecting this theatre for many years. His notes have always been to the point and well-informed in musical matters."

"He has taken against me!" Carlotta snapped. "How is that well-informed?"

Neither Christine nor Madame Giry chose to reply, and Raoul saved them from doing so, shook his head and ran a hand across his face.

"This is madness," he muttered. "Madness! Messieurs, I have seen this man – he threatened me!"

"Madame, is this true?" André asked, and Christine shook her head.

"No, Monsieur," she said. "My husband warned Monsieur le Vicomte that he was acting inappropriately towards me, but that is all." She looked at Raoul, met his gaze. It was his word against hers, she knew, and wondered which of them the managers would believe. André heaved a sigh, collapsed in a chair by the desk.

"It's all beyond me," he said. "I thought it would be simple, coming here. Firmin, what do you think?"

"Hm?" Firmin had been bent over the desk, examining the papers once more, and he glanced up at André and then at Christine. "Oh, well, she's said the man's eccentric, and we can see that for ourselves from all these blasted notes." He straightened, rubbed his back briefly. "Madame, I think we must believe you," he said to Christine. "But can I ask – will he continue with this ghost charade? Surely now we know the truth…"

"I couldn't possibly say," said Christine, thought it highly unlikely that Erik would cease his antics, given how much joy he took in teasing the superstitious workers of the opera house. "May I tell him that we will begin rehearsals?" she asked then.

"Yes, I suppose so," said André, and Firmin nodded. "It appears we have no choice."

"I can't believe you're simply accepting all this," marvelled Raoul. "Monsieur Firmin, surely you can see how preposterous this whole situation is?"

"What I see," interceded Madame Giry coolly, "is a man who cannot accept that his childhood friend loves another man." Raoul started, stared at her, but Madame Giry was firm, and nobody else spoke, nobody else had anything to say. Christine looked around, saw Carlotta's contemptuous look directed at Raoul rather than herself, saw André nodding as if in agreement with Madame Giry.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, if he owns the opera house, he has the right to dictate productions," said Firmin, and it was clear the idea was distasteful to him. "We'll have to examine these documents properly, of course, and find the papers we signed when we took over from Monsieur Lefevre – but on the face of it…"

"So I shall tell him," said Christine, and she nodded at Firmin. "Those copies are for you, Monsieur," she said. "Do you have any message for my husband?"

"No," said Firmin sourly. "No. But can we meet him, Madame?"

"I'm not sure," said Christine with a shrug. "I don't think so, Monsieur. He prefers to communicate by letter." She looked at Madame Giry, at Carlotta's pale face, and at last at Raoul. She felt sorry for him, she realised then. He had no conception of the love she had for Erik, no idea of how deeply they understood one another.

And he would never have it, she knew suddenly. As long as he clung to dreams of an idealised past, he would never be able to love someone as dearly and completely as she loved Erik. Yes, she felt very sorry for him indeed.

But not sorry enough to stay longer, to listen to his petty words and try to make him see the folly of thinking himself in love with her. Not when she knew Erik was lurking behind these walls somewhere, listening to the conversation and no doubt joyous that his plan had worked and his opera would be performed.

"Thank you for your time, Messieurs," she said, dipped a curtsey. "If there's nothing else…" They waved her away, and Christine left the office, shut the door behind her and then hurried to share in Erik's joy.


	37. Epilogue

Title: Stay By My Side

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>It took two months of rehearsals, and more than a few tantrums by Carlotta over what she called an atrocious score, but finally <em>Don Juan Triumphant<em> was performed. It was set for a run of a month, and when Christine returned to her dressing room at the interval she wondered if it would even last that long. The audience were not reacting well, and she was so terribly afraid that Erik's opera was too new, too modern.

But by the end the audience were enthusiastic, and Christine took three curtain calls before finally being able to escape up to her dressing room. She was not alone – Danielle was there, and Meg followed her to give congratulations – but she could feel Erik, knew he was there beyond the mirror.

"You were wonderful, Christine," said Meg, spinning a pirouette in her excitement. "Simply wonderful! Did you hear the audience? I thought some of them would walk out at the beginning, but they liked it!"

"They did," Christine agreed, laughed, glanced at the mirror and wished for the solitude to see Erik. The opera was about passion, and although Christine hardly felt that for Piangi, nevertheless the music had stirred something in her, and she ached for her husband.

"Stand still, girl," said Danielle to Meg, amused. "You'll make me dizzy, spinning about like that. Are you going down to the party, Christine?"

"No," said Christine at once, wriggled out of her costume and reached for her skirt and blouse. "No, I'm going home tonight."

"Ah, to your husband," said Danielle knowingly. "Well, I don't blame you. I'll just tidy these things away, then I'll be off."

"Oh, Christine!" said Meg, and she had stopped spinning but was now hopping from one foot to the other. "My first big solo! Did I do alright, do you think?"

"You did fine, Meg," Christine reassured her. "Wonderfully, in fact. You'll be the prima ballerina in no time." Meg flushed with pleasure, smiled broadly, and Christine reached to hug her friend tightly, pleased for her success. "Truly, Meg, you were wonderful."

"I bet Maman isn't satisfied, though," said Meg with a laugh, and Christine laughed as well, knew Meg was probably right. "I'm going to go down to the party, anyway," said Meg then. "I'll make your excuses, shall I?" She waved her hands, opened her eyes wide. "Spirited away by the ghostly composer!" Danielle snorted, waved goodbye to the two girls and left the room, and Christine laughed once more.

"Meg, you're enjoying all this gossip far too much," she said. "In fact, you're encouraging it."

"Of course I am," said Meg promptly, not bothering to deny it. "Did you hear the baby dancers are calling you Madame le Fantôme now? And I think Jammes is afraid of you!"

There came a stifled laugh from beyond the mirror, and Christine and Meg both glanced up, found the mirror transparent, revealing Erik standing behind it. Meg, who had grown a little more used to him now, smiled and turned back to Christine.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said. "Come and have lunch with me – if you can tear yourself away." Christine felt her cheeks warm, and Meg's smile was knowing as she left.

Erik spared no time, swung the mirror open and stepped through, caught her in his arms and kissed her.

"You were sublime," he said, when at last he let her go. "You surpassed my greatest hopes." He cupped her face in his hands, kissed her again, gentle now, slow and tender. Christine wrapped her arms about his neck, clung to him, pleased beyond words that she had satisfied him.

"I wish it had been you," she murmured against his mouth, felt rather than saw his smile. "I imagined it was you."

"I should hope so," said Erik, and she pressed her mouth to his, demanded more kisses. Demanded more, and he lowered a hand to her hip, pulled her flush against him. "My wife," he said, voice so low it was almost a growl. "I watched you acting out that seduction and willed myself onto the stage with you."

"Just an act," said Christine, a little breathless, slid her hands under his jacket and pushed it off his shoulders. "Oh Erik, your opera!" He nodded, gazed at something other than her for a moment before refocusing, smiling a genuinely happy smile, and Christine had to comment on it. "You're happy, my Erik," she said softly, lifted a hand to his mask, eased it gently off his face so she could see him. He allowed it, as he so often did now. He would never make the suggestion that he might remove his mask, but he rarely denied her the sight of his face when she asked him, or when she raised her hand to remove it herself.

"You're happy," she said again when she could see him. Erik nodded, closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers, clutched her so close to him that she could feel the evidence of his lust, pressed hard against her.

"Yes," said Erik after a long moment. "Yes, I believe I am."

"I am so glad," she whispered. "You know I want you to be happy."

"Christine, you make me happier than I have any right to be," Erik told her, opened his eyes and withdrew so she could look at him once more. His eyes were bright with unshed tears, and she bit her lip, reached up to kiss them away. "Happier than I ever dreamed," he added.

"And you make me happy, Erik," Christine said. "So very happy." She kissed him, pressed her mouth to his just for a moment, and he chased after her when she withdrew, caught her mouth and kissed her until she was breathless once more.

"Are you ready to go home?" Erik asked then, tucked a stray curl behind her ear. He smirked suddenly, tilted his head a little. "Madame le Fantôme."

Christine laughed, shook her head in amusement. "Why yes, Monsieur le Fantôme," she said, "I am quite ready." She turned serious then, looked up at him and took his hands. "Anywhere, with you," she said softly. "I will go anywhere you want, as long as you are with me."

"Oh, my Christine," murmured Erik. "You are quite perfect."

He held her hands in his, and led her down to their home across the lake.

* * *

><p>Finis.<p>

Many thanks as ever to my lovely beta Sam, who puts up with an awful lot of my theorising and wailng and contemplating about PotO and LND. Without her, fic would not happen :)

Thanks to all my lovely reviewers, it's so nice hearing what you think :)

And yes, I'm working on another. I'm about 3/4 done, and then it'll need beta-reading, so I think maybe a month or so until I start posting :) looking forward to seeing some of you then.


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